WILLIAM 


mmm 


MAN-SIZE 


MAN-SIZE 


BY 

WILLIAM  MACLEOD  RAINE 

AUTHOR  OF  "OH,  YOU  TKX!  "   "THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP.' 
"  OUNSIGHT  PASS,"  ETC. 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 


1922 


COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY  WILLIAM  MACLBOP  RAINB 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


sE'jf  KitoetBibe 

CAMBRIDGE  •  MASSACHUSETTS 
PRINTED  IN   THE    U.S.A. 


TO 

CAPTAIN  SIR  CECIL  E.  DENNY,  BART. 

OF  THE  FIRST  THREE  HUNDRED  RIDERS  OF  THE  PLAINS 

WHO  CARRIED  LAW  INTO  THE  LONE  LANDS 

AND  MADE  THE  SCARLET  AND  GOLD 

A  SYNONYM  FOR 
JUSTICE,  INTEGRITY,  AND  INDOMITABLE  PLUCK 


M&2519 


CONTENTS 

I.  IN  THE  DANGER  ZONE  1 

II.  THE  AMAZON  6 

HI.  ANGUS  McRAE  DOES  HIS  DUTY  14 

IV.  THE  WOLFERS  22 

V.  MORSE  JUMPS  UP  TROUBLE  85 

VI.  "SOMETHING  ABOUT  THESE  GUYS"  45 

VII.  THE  MAN  IN  THE  SCARLET  JACKET  53 

VIII.  AT  SWEET  WATER  CREEK  64 

IX.  TOM  MAKES  A  COLLECTION  72 

X.  A  CAMP-FIRE  TALE  82 

XI.  C.  N.  MORSE  TURNS  OVER  A  LEAF  88 

XII.  TOM  DUCKS  TROUBLE  99 

XIII.  THE  CONSTABLE  BORES  THROUGH  DIFFICUL 

TIES  104 

XIV.  SCARLET-COATS  IN  ACTION  109 
XV.  KISSING  DAY  115 

XVI.  A  BUSINESS  DEAL  123 

XVII.  A  BOARD  CREAKS  128 

XVIII.  A  GUN  ROARS  135 

XIX.  "D'  YOU  WONDER  SHE  HATES  ME?"  140 

XX.  ONISTAH  READS  SIGN  149 

XXI.  ON  THE  FRONTIER  OF  DESPAIR  155 
XXII.  "MY  DAMN  PRETTY  LiV  HIGH-STEPPIN' 

SQUAW"  165 


viii  CONTENTS 

XXIII.  A  FORETASTE  OF  HELL  170 

XXIV.  WEST  MAKES  A  DECISION  181 
XXV.  FOR  THE  WEE  LAMB  LOST  187 

XXVI.  A  RESCUE  195 

XXVII.  APACHE  STUFF  203 

XXVIII.    "IS  A'  WELL  Wl'  YOU,  LASS?"  212 

XXIX.  NOT  GOING  ALONE  219 

XXX.  "M"  FOR  MORSE  226 

XXXI.  THE  LONG  TRAIL  232 

XXXII.  A  PICTURE  IN  A  LOCKET  239 

XXXIII.  INTO  THE  LONE  LAND  245 

XXXIV.  THE  MAN-HUNTERS  READ  SIGN  253 
XXXV.  SNOW-BLIND                                                ~     262 

XXXVI.  THE  WILD  BEAST  LEAPS  268 

XXXVII.  NEAR  THE  END  OF  A  LONG  CROOKED  TRAIL  275 

XXXVIII.  OVER  A  ROTTING  TRAIL  280 

XXXIX.  A  CREE  RUNNER  BRINGS  NEWS  288 

XL.  "MALBROUCK  S'EN  VA-T-EN  GUERRE"  294 

XLI.  SENSE  AND  NONSENSE  298 

XLII.  THE  IMPERATIVE  URGE  304 


MAN-SIZE 


MAN-SIZE 


CHAPTER  I  ••-.•.:•;:.:• 

IN  THE  DANGER  ZONE 

SHE  stood  on  the  crown  of  the  hill,  silhouetted  against 
a  sky-line  of  deepest  blue.  Already  the  sun  was  sinking 
in  a  crotch  of  the  plains  which  rolled  to  the  horizon  edge 
like  waves  of  a  great  land  sea.  Its  reflected  fires  were 
in  her  dark,  stormy  eyes.  Its  long,  slanted  rays  were  a 
spotlight  for  the  tall,  slim  figure,  straight  as  that  of  a 
boy. 

The  girl's  gaze  was  fastened  on  a  wisp  of  smoke  rising 
lazily  from  a  hollow  of  the  crumpled  hills.  That  float 
ing  film  told  of  a  camp-fire  of  buffalo  chips.  There  was  a 
little  knitted  frown  of  worry  on  her  forehead,  for  imagi 
nation  could  fill  in  details  of  what  the  coulee  held :  the 
white  canvas  tops  of  prairie  schooners,  some  spans  of 
oxen  grazing  near,  a  group  of  blatant,  profane  whiskey- 
smugglers  from  Montana,  and  in  the  wagons  a  cargo  of 
liquor  to  debauch  the  Bloods  and  Piegans  near  Fort 
Whoop-Up. 

Sleeping  Dawn  was  a  child  of  impulse.  She  had  all 
youth's  capacity  for  passionate  indignation  and  none 
of  the  wisdom  of  age  which  tempers  the  eager  desire 
of  the  hour.  These  whiskey-traders  were  ruining  her 


2  MAN-SIZE 

people.  More  than  threescore  Blackfeet  braves  had 
been  killed  within  the  year  in  drunken  brawls  among 
themselves.  The  plains  Indians  would  sell  their  souls 
for  fire-water.  When  the  craze  was  on  them,  they  would 
exchange  furs,  buffalo  robes,  ponies,  even  their  wives 
and  daughters  for  a  bottle  of  the  poison. 

In  the  sunset  glow  she  stood  rigid  and  resentful,  one 
small  fist  clenched,  the  other  fast  to  the  barrel  of  the 
rifle  she  carried.  The  evils  of  the  trade  came  close  to 
her.  Fergus  McRae  still  carried  the  gash  from  a  knife 
thrust  earned  in  a  drunken  brawl.  It  was  likely  that 
to-morrow  he  would  cut  the  trail  of  the  wagon  wheels 
and  again  make  a  bee-line  for  liquor  and  trouble.  The 
swift  blaze  of  revolt  found  expression  in  the  stamp  of 
her  moccasined  foot. 

As  dusk  fell  over  the  plains,  Sleeping  Dawn  moved 
forward  lightly,  swiftly,  toward  the  camp  in  the  hollow 
of  the  hills.  She  had  no  definite  purpose  except  to  spy 
the  lay-out,  to  make  sure  that  her  fears  were  justified. 
But  through  the  hinterland  of  her  consciousness  rebel 
lious  thoughts  were  racing.  These  smugglers  were 
wholly  outside  the  law.  It  was  her  right  to  frustrate 
them  if  she  could. 

Noiselessly  she  skirted  the  ridge  above  the  coulee, 
moving  through  the  bunch  grass  with  the  wary  care 
she  had  learned  as  a  child  in  the  lodges  of  the  tribe. 

Three  men  crouched  on  their  heels  in  the  glow  of  a 
camp-fire  well  up  the  draw.  A  fourth  sat  at  a  little  dis 
tance  from  them  riveting  a  stirrup  leather  with  two 
stones.  The  wagons  had  been  left  near  the  entrance 
of  the  valley  pocket  some  sixty  or  seventy  yards  from 


IN  THE  DANGER  ZONE  3 

the  fire.  Probably  the  drivers,  after  they  had  unhitched 
the  teams,  had  been  drawn  deeper  into  the  draw  to  a 
spot  more  fully  protected  from  the  wind. 

While  darkness  gathered,  Sleeping  Dawn  lay  in  the 
bunch  grass  with  her  eyes  focused  on  the  camp  below. 
Her  untaught  soul  struggled  with  the  problem  that 
began  to  shape  itself.  These  men  were  wolfers,  desper 
ate  men  engaged  in  a  nefarious  business.  They  paid  no 
duty  to  the  British  Government.  She  had  heard  her 
father  say  so.  Contrary  to  law,  they  brought  in  their 
vile  stuff  and  sold  it  both  to  breeds  and  tribesmen. 
They  had  no  regard  whatever  for  the  terrible  injury 
they  did  the  natives.  Their  one  intent  was  to  get  rich 
as  soon  as  possible,  so  they  plied  their  business  openly 
and  defiantly.  For  the  Great  Lone  Land  was  still  a 
wilderness  where  every  man  was  a  law  to  himself. 

The  blood  of  the  girl  beat  fast  with  the  racing  pulse  of 
excitement.  A  resolution  was  forming  in  her  mind.  She 
realized  the  risks  and  estimated  chances  coolly.  These 
men  would  fire  to  kill  on  any  skulker  near  the  camp. 
They  would  take  no  needless  hazard  of  being  surprised 
by  a  band  of  stray  Indians.  But  the  night  would  be 
friend  her.  She  believed  she  could  do  what  she  had  in 
mind  and  easily  get  away  to  the  shelter  of  the  hill 
creases  before  they  could  kill  or  capture  her. 

A  shadowy  dog  on  the  outskirt  of  the  camp  rose  and 
barked.  The  girl  waited,  motionless,  tense,  but  the  men 
paid  little  heed  to  the  warning.  The  man  working  at 
the  stirrup  leather  got  to  his  feet,  indeed,  carelessly, 
rifle  in  hand,  and  stared  into  the  gloom;  but  presently 
he  turned  on  his  heel  and  sauntered  back  to  his  job  of 


4  MAN-SIZE 

saddlery.  Evidently  the  hound  was  used  to  voicing 
false  alarms  whenever  a  coyote  slipped  past  or  a  skunk 
nosed  inquisitively  near. 

Sleeping  Dawn  followed  the  crest  of  the  ridge  till  it 
fell  away  to  the  mouth  of  the  coulee.  She  crept  up  be 
hind  the  white-topped  wagon  nearest  the  entrance. 

An  axe  lay  against  the  tongue.  She  picked  it  up, 
glancing  at  the  same  time  toward  the  camp-fire.  So 
far  she  had  quite  escaped  notice.  The  hound  lay  blink 
ing  into  the  flames,  its  nose  resting  on  crossed  paws. 

With  her  hunting-knife  the  girl  ripped  the  canvas 
from  the  side  of  the  top.  She  stood  poised,  one  foot  on  a 
spoke,  the  other  on  the  axle.  The  axe-head  swung  in  a 
half-circle.  There  was  a  crash  of  wood,  a  swift  jet  of 
spouting  liquor.  Again  the  axe  swung  gleaming  above 
her  head.  A  third  and  a  fourth  time  it  crashed  against 
the  staves. 

A  man  by  the  camp-fire  leaped  to  his  feet  with  a 
startled  oath.  "What's  that?"  he  demanded  sharply. 

From  the  shadows  of  the  wagons  a  light  figure  darted. 
The  man  snatched  up  a  rifle  and  fired.  A  second  time, 
aimlessly,  he  sent  a  bullet  into  the  darkness. 

The  silent  night  was  suddenly  alive  with  noises. 
Shots,  shouts,  the  barking  of  the  dog,  the  slap  of  running 
feet,  all  came  in  a  confused  medley  to  Sleeping  Dawn. 

She  gained  a  moment's  respite  from  pursuit  when  the 
traders  stopped  at  the  wagons  to  get  their  bearings. 
The  first  of  the  white-topped  schooners  was  untouched. 
The  one  nearest  the  entrance  to  the  coulee  held  four 
whiskey-casks  with  staves  crushed  in  and  contents  seep 
ing  into  the  dry  ground. 


IN  THE  DANGER  ZONE  5 

Against  one  of  the  wheels  a  rifle  rested.  The  girl  flying 
in  a  panic  had  forgotten  it  till  too  late. 

The  vandalism  of  the  attack  amazed  the  men.  They 
could  have  understood  readily  enough  some  shots  out  of 
the  shadows  or  a  swoop  down  upon  the  camp  to  stam 
pede  and  run  off  the  saddle  horses.  Even  a  serious 
attempt  to  wipe  out  the  party  by  a  stray  band  of  Black- 
feet  or  Crees  was  an  undertaking  that  would  need  no 
explaining.  But  why  should  any  one  do  such  a  foolish, 
wasteful  thing  as  this,  one  to  so  little  purpose  in  its 
destructiveness  ? 

They  lost  no  time  in  speculation,  but  plunged  into 
the  darkness  in  pursuit. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  AMAZON 

THE  dog  darted  into  the  bunch  grass  and  turned 
sharply  to  the  right.  One  of  the  men  followed  it,  the 
others  took  different  directions. 

Up  a  gully  the  hound  ran,  nosed  the  ground  in  a  circle 
of  sniffs,  and  dipped  down  into  a  dry  watercourse. 
Tom  Morse  was  at  heel  scarcely  a  dozen  strides  behind. 

The  yelping  of  the  dog  told  Morse  they  were  close  on 
their  quarry.  Once  or  twice  he  thought  he  made  out  the 
vague  outline  of  a  flying  figure,  but  in  the  night  shadows 
it  was  lost  again  almost  at  once. 

They  breasted  the  long  slope  of  a  low  hill  and  took 
the  decline  beyond.  The  young  plainsman  had  the  legs 
and  the  wind  of  a  Marathon  runner.  His  was  the  per 
fect  physical  fitness  of  one  who  lives  a  clean,  hard  life 
in  the  dry  air  of  the  high  lands.  The  swiftness  and  the 
endurance  of  the  fugitive  told  him  that  he  was  in  the 
wake  of  youth  trained  to  a  fine  edge. 

Unexpectedly,  in  the  deeper  darkness  of  a  small 
ravine  below  the  hill  spur,  the  hunted  turned  upon  the 
hunter.  Morse  caught  the  gleam  of  a  knife  thrust  as  he 
plunged.  It  was  too  late  to  check  his  dive.  A  flame  of 
fire  scorched  through  his  forearm.  The  two  went  down 
together,  rolling  over  and  over  as  they  struggled. 

Startled,  Morse  loosened  his  grip.  He  had  discovered 
by  the  feel  of  the  flesh  he  was  handling  so  roughly  that 
it  was  a  woman  with  whom  he  was  fighting. 


THE  AMAZON  7 

She  took  advantage  of  his  hesitation  to  shake  free 
and  roll  away. 

They  faced  each  other  on  their  feet.  The  man  was 
amazed  at  the  young  Amazon's  fury.  Her  eyes  were  like 
live  coals,  flashing  at  him  hatred  and  defiance.  Beneath 
the  skin  smock  she  wore,  her  breath  came  raggedly  and 
deeply.  Neither  of  them  spoke,  but  her  gaze  did  not 
yield  a  thousandth  part  of  an  inch  to  his. 

The  girl  darted  for  the  knife  she  had  dropped.  Morse 
was  upon  her  instantly.  She  tried  to  trip  him,  but  when 
they  struck  the  ground  she  was  underneath. 

He  struggled  to  pin  down  her  arms,  but  she  fought 
with  a  barbaric  fury.  Her  hard  little  fist  beat  upon  his 
face  a  dozen  times'  before  he  pegged  it  down. 

Lithe  as  a  panther,  her  body  twisted  beneath  his. 
Too  late  the  flash  of  white  teeth  warned  him.  She  bit 
into  his  arm  with  the  abandon  of  a  savage. 

"You  little  devil!"  he  cried  between  set  teeth. 

He  flung  away  any  scruples  he  might  have  had  and 
pinned  fast  her  flying  arms.  The  slim,  muscular  body 
still  writhed  in  vain  contortions  till  he  clamped  it  fast 
between  knees  from  which  not  even  an  untamed  cayuse 
could  free  itself. 

She  gave  up  struggling.  They  glared  at  each  other, 
panting  from  their  exertions.  Her  eyes  still  flamed 
defiance,  but  back  of  it  he  read  fear,  a  horrified  and  para 
lyzing  terror.  To  the  white  traders  along  the  border  a 
half-breed  girl  was  a  squaw,  and  a  squaw  was  property 
just  as  a  horse  or  a  dog  was. 

For  the  first  time  she  spoke,  and  in  English.  Her 
voice  came  bell-clear  and  not  in  the  guttural  of  the  tribes. 


8  MAN-SIZE 

"Let  me  up!"  It  was  an  imperative,  urgent,  threat 
ening. 

He  still  held  her  in  the  vice,  his  face  close  to  her  flam 
ing  eyes.  "You  little  devil,"  he  said  again. 

"Let  me  up!"  she  repeated  wildly.  "Let  me  up,  I 
tell  you." 

"Like  blazes  I  will.  You're  through  biting  and 
knifing  me  for  one  night."  He  had  tasted  no  liquor  all 
day,  but  there  was  the  note  of  drunkenness  in  his  voice. 

The  terror  in  her  grew.    "If  you  don't  let  me  up  — " 

"You '11  do  what? "  he  jeered. 

Her  furious  upheaval  took  him  by  surprise.  She  had 
unseated  him  and  was  scrambling  to  her  feet  before  he 
had  her  by  the  shoulders. 

The  girl  ducked  her  head  in  an  effort  to  wrench  free. 
She  could  as  easily  have  escaped  from  steel  cuffs  as 
from  the  grip  of  his  brown  fingers. 

"You'd  better  let  me  go!"  she  cried.  "You  don't 
know  who  I  am." 

"Nor  care,"  he  flung  back.  "You're  a  nitchie,  and 
you  smashed  our  kegs.  That's  enough  for  me." 

"I'm  no  such  thing  a  nitchie,"1  she  denied  indig 
nantly. 

The  instinct  of  self-preservation  was  moving  in  her. 
She  had  played  into  the  hands  of  this  man  and  his  com 
panions.  The  traders  made  their  own  laws  and  set 
their  own  standards.  The  value  of  a  squaw  of  the 
Blackfeet  was  no  more  than  that  of  the  liquor  she  had 
destroyed.  It  would  be  in  character  for  them  to  keep 
her  as  a  chattel  captured  in  war. 

1  In  the  vernacular  of  the  Northwest  Indians  were  "nitchies."  (W.  M.  R.) 


THE  AMAZON  9 

"The  daughter  of  a  squaw-man  then,"  he  said,  and 
there  was  in  his  voice  the  contempt  of  the  white  man  for 
the  half-breed. 

"I'm  Jessie  McRae,"  she  said  proudly. 

Among  the  Indians  she  went  by  her  tribal  name  of 
Sleeping  Dawn,  but  always  with  the  whites  she  used 
the  one  her  adopted  father  had  given  her.  It  increased 
their  respect  for  her.  Just  now  she  was  in  des 
perate  need  of  every  ounce  that  would  weigh  in  the 
scales. 

"Daughter  of  Angus  McRae?"  he  asked,  astonished. 

"Yes." 

"His  woman's  a  Cree?" 

"His  wife  is,"  the  girl  corrected. 

"What  you  doin'  here?" 

"Father's  camp  is  near.  He's  hunting  hides." 

"Did  he  send  you  to  smash  our  whiskey -barrels?" 

"Angus  McRae  never  hides  behind  a  woman,"  she 
said,  her  chin  up. 

That  was  true.  Morse  knew  it,  though  he  had  never 
met  McRae.  His  reputation  had  gone  all  over  the 
Northland  as  a  fearless  fighting  man  honest  as  daylight 
and  stern  as  the  Day  of  Judgment.  If  this  girl  was  a 
daughter  of  the  old  Scot,  not  even  a  whiskey-trader 
could  safely  lay  hands  on  her.  For  back  of  Angus  was 
a  group  of  buffalo-hunters  related  to  him  by  blood  over 
whom  he  held  half-patriarchal  sway. 

"Why  did  you  do  it?"  Morse  demanded. 

The  question  struck  a  spark  of  spirit  from  her.  "Be 
cause  you  're  ruining  my  people  —  destroying  them  with 
your  fire-water." 


10  MAN-SIZE 

He  was  taken  wholly  by  surprise.  "Do  you  mean 
you  destroyed  our  property  for  that  reason?" 

She  nodded,  sullenly. 

"But  we  don't  trade  with  the  Crees,"  he  persisted. 

It  was  on  the  tip  of  her  tongue  to  tell  him  that  she  was 
of  the  Blackf oot  tribe  and  not  of  the  Crees,  but  again  for 
reasons  of  policy  she  was  less  than  candid.  Till  she  was 
safely  out  of  the  woods,  it  was  better  this  man  should 
not  know  she  was  only  an  adopted  daughter  of  Angus 
McRae.  She  offered  another  reason,  and  with  a  flare  of 
passion  which  he  was  to  learn  as  a  characteristic  of  her. 

"You  make  trouble  for  my  brother  Fergus.  He  shot 
Akokotos  (Many  Horses)  in  the  leg  when  the  fire-water 
burned  in  him.  He  was  stabbed  by  a  Piegan  brave  who 
did  not  know  what  he  was  doing.  Fergus  is  good.  He 
minds  his  own  business.  But  you  steal  away  his  brains. 
Then  he  runs  wild.  It  was  you,  not  Fergus,  that  shot 
Akokotos.  The  Great  Spirit  knows  you  whiskey- 
traders,  and  not  my  poor  people  who  destroy  each 
other,  are  the  real  murderers." 

Her  logic  was  feminine  and  personal,  from  his  view 
point  wholly  unfair.  Moreover,  one  of  her  charges  did 
not  happen  to  be  literally  true. 

"We  never  sold  whiskey  to  your  brother  —  not  our 
outfit.  It  was  Jackson's,  maybe.  Anyhow,  nobody 
made  him  buy  it.  He  was  free  to  take  it  or  leave  it." 

"A  wolf  does  n't  have  to  eat  the  poisoned  meat  in  a 
trap,  but  it  eats  and  dies,"  she  retorted  swiftly  and 
bitterly. 

Adroitly  she  had  put  him  on  the  defensive.  Her  words 
had  the  sting  of  barbed  darts. 


THE  AMAZON  11 

"We're  not  talking  of  wolves." 

44 No,  but  of  Blackfeet  and  Bloods  and  Sarcees,"  she 
burst  out,  again  with  that  flare  of  feminine  ferocity  so 
out  of  character  in  an  Indian  woman  or  the  daughter  of 
one.  "D*  you  think  I  don't  know  how  you  Americans 
talk?  A  good  Indian  is  a  dead  Indian.  No  wonder  we 
hate  you  all.  No  wonder  the  tribes  fight  you  to  the 
death." 

He  had  no  answer  for  this.  It  was  true.  He  had  been 
brought  up  in  a  land  of  Indian  wars  and  he  had  accepted 
without  question  the  common  view  that  the  Sioux,  the 
Crows,  and  the  Cheyennes,  with  all  their  blood  brothers, 
were  menaces  to  civilization.  The  case  for  the  natives 
he  had  never  studied.  How  great  a  part  broken  pledges 
and  callous  injustice  had  done  to  drive  the  tribes  to  the 
war-path  he  did  not  know.  Few  of  the  actual  frontiers 
men  were  aware  of  the  wrongs  of  the  red  men. 

The  young  man's  hands  fell  from  her  arms.  Hard- 
eyed  and  grim,  he  looked  her  over  from  head  to  foot. 
The  short  skirt  and  smock  of  buckskin,  the  moccasins 
of  buffalo  hide,  all  dusty  and  travel -stained,  told  of  life 
in  a  primitive  country  under  the  simplest  and  hardest 
conditions. 

Yet  the  voice  was  clear  and  vibrant,  the  words  well 
enunciated.  She  bloomed  like  a  desert  rose,  had  some 
quality  of  vital  life  that  struck  a  spark  from  his  imagi 
nation. 

What  manner  of  girl  was  she?  Not  by  any  possibility 
would  she  fit  into  the  specifications  of  the  cubby-hole 
his  mind  had  built  for  Indian  women.  The  daughters 
even  of  the  boisbrules  had  much  of  the  heaviness  and 


12  MAN-SIZE 

\ 

stolidity  of  their  native  mothers.  Jessie  Mcllae  was 
graceful  as  a  fawn.  Every  turn  of  the  dark  head,  every 
lift  of  the  hand,  expressed  spirit  and  verve.  She  must, 
he  thought,  have  inherited  almost  wholly  from  her 
father,  though  in  her  lissom  youth  he  could  find  little  of 
McRae's  heavy  solidity  of  mind  and  body. 

"Your  brother  is  of  the  metis.1  He 's  not  a  tribesman. 
And  he's  no  child.  He  can  look  out  for  himself,"  Morse 
said  at  last. 

His  choice  of  a  word  was  unfortunate.  It  applied  as 
much  to  her  as  to  Fergus.  Often  it  was  used  contemp 
tuously. 

"Yes,  and  the  metis  does  n't  matter,"  she  cried,  with 
the  note  of  bitterness  that  sat  so  strangely  on  her  hot- 
blooded,  vital  youth.  "You  can  ride  over  him  as  though 
you  're  lords  of  the  barren  lands.  You  can  ruin  him  for 
the  money  you  make,  even  if  he 's  a  subject  of  the  Great 
Mother  and  not  of  your  country.  He 's  only  a  breed  —  a 
mongrel. " 

He  was  a  man  of  action.  He  brushed  aside  discussion. 
"We'll  be  movin'  back  to  camp." 

Instantly  her  eyes  betrayed  the  fear  she  would  not 
put  into  words.  "No  —  no!  I  won't  go." 

His  lids  narrowed.  The  outthrust  of  his  lean  jaw  left 
no  room  for  argument.  "You'll  go  where  I  say." 

She  knew  it  would  be  that  way,  if  he  dragged  her  by 
the  hair  of  the  head.  Because  she  was  in  such  evil  case 
she  tamed  her  pride  to  sullen  pleading. 

"Don't  take  me  there!   Let  me  go  to  father.    He'll 

1  The  half-breeds  were  known  as  "metis."  The  word  means,  of  course, 
mongrel.  (W.  M.  R.) 


THE  AMAZON  13 

horsewhip  me.  I  '11  have  him  do  it  for  you.  Is  n't  that 
enough?  Won't  that  satisfy  you?" 

Red  spots  smoldered  like  fire  in  his  brown  eyes.  If  he 
took  her  back  to  the  traders'  camp,  he  would  have  to 
fight  Bully  West  for  her.  That  was  certain.  All  sorts  of 
complications  would  rise.  There  would  be  trouble  with 
McRae.  The  trade  with  the  Indians  of  his  uncle's  firm, 
of  which  he  was  soon  to  be  a  partner,  would  be  wrecked 
by  the  Scotchman.  No,  he  could  n't  take  her  back  to 
the  camp  in  the  coulee.  There  was  too  much  at  stake. 

"Suits  me.  I'll  take  you  up  on  that.  He's  to  horse 
whip  you  for  that  fool  trick  you  played  on  us  and  to 
make  good  our  loss.  Where's  his  camp?" 

From  the  distance  of  a  stone-throw  a  heavy,  raucous 
voice  called,  "'Lo,  Morse!" 

The  young  man  turned  to  the  girl,  his  lips  set  in  a 
thin,  hard  line.  "Bully  West.  The  dog's  gone  back  and 
is  bringin'  him  here,  I  reckon.  Like  to  meet  him?" 

She  knew  the  reputation  of  Bully  West,  notorious  as 
a  brawler  and  a  libertine.  Who  in  all  the  North  did  not 
know  of  it?  Her  heart  fluttered  a  signal  of  despair. 

"I  —  I  can  get  away  yet  —  up  the  valley,"  she  said  in 
a  whisper,  eyes  quick  with  fear. 

He  smiled  grimly.  "You  mean  we  can." 

"Yes." 

"Hit  the  trail." 

She  turned  and  led  the  way  into  the  darkness. 


CHAPTER  III 

ANGUS  McRAE  DOES  HIS  DUTY 

THE  harsh  shout  came  to  them  again,  and  with  it  a 
volley  of  oaths  that  polluted  the  night. 

Sleeping  Dawn  quickened  her  pace.  The  character 
of  Bully  West  was  sufficiently  advertised  in  that  single 
outburst.  She  conceived  him  bloated,  wolfish,  malig 
nant,  a  man  whose  mind  traveled  through  filthy  green 
swamps  breeding  fever  and  disease.  Hard  though  this 
young  man  was,  in  spite  of  her  hatred  of  him,  of  her 
doubt  as  to  what  lay  behind  those  inscrutable,  reddish- 
brown  eyes  of  his,  she  would  a  hundred  times  rather 
take  chances  with  him  than  with  Bully  West.  He  was  at 
least  a  youth.  There  was  always  the  possibility  that  he 
might  not  yet  have  escaped  entirely  from  the  tenderness 
of  boyhood. 

Morse  followed  her  silently  with  long,  tireless  strides. 
The  girl  continued  to  puzzle  him.  Even  her  manner  of 
walking  expressed  personality.  There  was  none  of  the 
flat-footed  Indian  shuffle  about  her  gait.  She  moved 
lightly,  springily,  as  one  does  who  finds  in  it  the  joy 
of  calling  upon  abundant  strength. 

She  was  half  Scotch,  of  course.  That  helped  to  explain 
her.  The  words  of  an  old  song  hummed  themselves 
through  his  mind. 

"  Yestreen  I  met  a  winsome  lass,  a  bonny  lass  was  she, 
As  ever  climbed  the  mountain-side,  or  tripped  aboon  the  lea; 
She  wore  nae  gold,  nae  jewels  bright,  nor  silk  nor  satin  rare, 
But  just  the  plaidie  that  a  queen  might  well  be  proud  to  wear." 


ANGUS  McRAE  DOES  HIS  DUTY      15 

Jessie  McRae  wore  nothing  half  so  picturesque  as  the 
tartan.  Her  clothes  were  dingy  and  dust-stained.  But 
they  could  not  eclipse  the  divine,  dusky  youth  of  her. 
She  was  slender,  as  a  panther  is,  and  her  movements 
had  more  than  a  suggestion  of  the  same  sinuous  grace. 

Of  the  absurdity  of  such  thoughts  he  was  quite  aware. 
She  was  a  good-looking  breed.  Let  it  go  at  that.  In 
story-books  there  were  Indian  princesses,  but  in  real 
life  there  were  only  squaws. 

Not  till  they  were  out  of  the  danger  zone  did  he  speak. 
"Where's  your  father's  camp?" 

She  pointed  toward  the  northwest.  "You  don't  need 
to  be  afraid.  He'll  pay  you  for  the  damage  I  did." 

He  looked  at  her  in  the  steady,  appraising  way  she 
was  to  learn  as  a  peculiarity  of  his. 

"  I  'm  not  afraid,"  he  drawled.  "  I  '11  get  my  pay — and 
you'll  get  yours." 

Color  flamed  into  her  dusky  face.  When  she  spoke 
there  was  the  throb  of  contemptuous  anger  in  her  voice. 
"It's  a  great  thing  to  be  a  man." 

"Like  to  crawfish,  would  you?" 

She  swung  on  him,  eyes  blazing.  "No.  I  don't  ask 
any  favors  of  a  wolfer." 

She  spat  the  word  at  him  as  though  it  were  a  missile. 
The  term  was  one  of  scorn,  used  only  in  speaking  of  the 
worst  of  the  whiskey-traders.  He  took  it  coolly,  his 
strong  white  teeth  flashing  in  a  derisive  smile. 

"Then  this  wolfer  won't  offer  any,  Miss  McRae." 

It  was  the  last  word  that  passed  between  them  till 
they  reached  the  buffalo-hunter's  camp.  If  he  felt  any 
compunctions,  she  read  nothing  of  the  kind  in  his  brown 


16  MAN-SIZE 

face  and  the  steady  stride  carrying  her  straight  to  pun 
ishment.  She  wondered  if  he  knew  how  mercilessly 
twenty-year-old  Fergus  had  been  thrashed  after  his 
drunken  spree  among  the  Indians,  how  sternly  Angus 
dispensed  justice  in  the  clan  over  which  he  ruled.  Did 
he  think  she  was  an  ordinary  squaw,  one  to  be  whipped 
as  a  matter  of  discipline  by  her  owner? 

They  climbed  a  hill  and  looked  down  on  a  camp  of 
many  fires  in  the  hollow  below. 

"Is  it  you,  lass?"  a  voice  called. 

Out  of  the  shadows  thrown  by  the  tents  a  big  bearded 
man  came  to  meet  them.  He  stood  six  feet  in  his  woolen 
socks.  His  chest  was  deep  and  his  shoulders  tremen 
dously  broad.  Few  in  the  Lone  Lands  had  the  physical 
strength  of  Angus  McRae. 

His  big  hand  caught  the  girl  by  the  shoulder  with  a 
grip  that  was  half  a  caress.  He  had  been  a  little  anxious 
about  her  and  this  found  expression  in  a  reproach. 

"You  shouldna  go  out  by  your  lane  for  so  lang  after 
dark,  Jess.  Weel  you  ken  that." 

"I  know,  Father." 

The  blue  eyes  beneath  the  grizzled  brows  of  the 
hunter  turned  upon  Morse.  They  asked  what  he  was 
doing  with  his  daughter  at  that  time  and  place. 

The  Montana  trader  answered  the  unspoken  question, 
an  edge  of  irony  in  his  voice.  "I  found  Miss  McRae  wan- 
derin'  around,  so  I  brought  her  home  where  she  would 
be  safe  and  well  taken  care  of." 

There  was  something  about  this  Angus  did  not  under 
stand.  At  night  in  the  Lone  Lands,  among  a  thousand 
hill  pockets  and  shoestring  draws,  it  would  be  only  a 


ANGUS  McRAE  DOES  HIS  DUTY      17 

millionth  chance  that  would  bring  a  man  and  woman 
together  unexpectedly.  He  pushed  home  questions, 
for  he  was  not  one  to  slough  any  of  the  responsibilities 
that  belonged  to  him  as  father  of  his  family. 

A  fat  and  waistless  Indian  woman  appeared  in  the 
tent  flap  as  the  three  approached  the  light.  She  gave  a 
grunt  of  surprise  and  pointed  first  at  Morse  and  then  at 
the  girl. 

The  trader's  hands  were  covered  with  blood,  his 
shirt-sleeve  soaked  in  it.  Stains  of  it  were  spattered 
over  the  girl's  clothes  and  face. 

The  Scotchman  looked  at  them,  and  his  clean-shaven 
upper  lip  grew  straight,  his  whole  face  stern.  "What '11 
be  the  meanin'  o'  this?"  he  asked. 

Morse  turned  to  the  girl,  fastened  his  eyes  on  her 
steadily,  and  waited. 

"Nae  lees.  I'll  hae  the  truth,"  Angus  added  harshly. 

"I  did  it  —  with  my  hunting-knife,"  the  daughter 
said,  looking  straight  at  her  father. 

"What's  that?  Are  ye  talkin'  havers,  lass?" 

"It's  the  truth,  Father." 

The  Scotchman  swung  on  the  trader  with  a  swift 
question,  at  the  end  of  it  a  threat.  "Why  would  she 
do  that?  Why?  If  you  said  one  word  to  my  lass  —  " 

"No,  Father.  You  don't  understand.  I  found  a  camp 
of  whiskey-traders,  and  I  stole  up  and  smashed  four- 
five  kegs.  I  meant  to  slip  away,  but  this  man  caught 
me.  When  he  rushed  at  me  I  was  afraid  —  so  I  slashed 
at  him  with  my  knife.  We  fought." 

"You  fought,"  her  father  repeated. 

"He  did  n't  know  I  was  a  girl  —  not  at  first." 


18  MAN-SIZE 

The  buffalo-hunter  passed  that  point.  "You  went  to 
this  trader's  camp  and  ruined  his  goods?" 

"Yes." 

"Why?" 

The  slim  girl  faced  her  judge  steadily  with  eyes  full 
of  apprehension.  "Fergus,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice, 
"and  my  people." 

"What  aboot  them?" 

"These  traders  break  the  law.  They  sell  liquor  to 
Fergus  and  to  —  " 

"Gin  that's  true,  is  it  your  business  to  ram-stam  in 
an'  destroy  ither  folks'  property?  Did  I  bring  you  up 
i'  the  fear  o'  the  Lord  to  slash  at  men  wi'  your  dirk  an' 
fight  wi'  them  like  a  wild  limmer?  I've  been  ower-easy 
wi'  you.  Weel,  I'll  do  my  painfu'  duty  the  nicht,  lass." 
The  Scotchman's  eyes  were  as  hard  and  as  inexorable 
as  those  of  a  hanging  judge. 

"Yes,"  the  girl  answered  in  a  small  voice.  "That's 
why  he  brought  me  home  instead  of  taking  me  to  his 
own  camp.  You're  to  whip  me." 

Angus  McRae  was  not  used  to  having  the  law  and 
the  judgment  taken  out  of  his  own  hands.  He  frowned 
at  the  young  man  beneath  heavy  grizzled  eyebrows 
drawn  sternly  together.  "An5  who  are  you  to  tell  me 
how  to  goverp  my  ain  hoose?"  he  demanded. 

"My  name's  Morse  —  Tom  Morse,  Fort  Benton, 
Montana,  when  my  hat's  hangin'  up.  I  took  up  your 
girl's  proposition,  that  if  I  did  n't  head  in  at  our  camp, 
but  brought  her  here,  you  were  to  whip  her  and  pay  me 
damages  for  what  she  'd  done.  Me,  I  did  n't  propose  it. 
She  did." 


ANGUS  McRAE  DOES  HIS  DUTY      19 

"You  gave  him  your  word  on  that,  Jess?"  her  father 
asked. 

"Yes."  She  dragged  out,  reluctantly,  after  a  mo 
ment:  "With  a  horsewhip." 

"Then  that's  the  way  it'll  be.  The  McRaes  don't 
cry  back  on  a  bargain,"  the  dour  old  buffalo-hunter 
said.  "But  first  we'll  look  at  this  young  man's  arm. 
Get  water  and  clean  rags,  Jess." 

Morse  flushed  beneath  the  dark  tan  of  his  cheeks. 
"My  arm 's  all  right.  It  '11  keep  till  I  get  back  to  camp." 

"No  such  thing,  my  lad.  We '11  tie  it  up  here  and  now. 
If  my  lass  cut  your  arm,  she'll  bandage  the  wound." 

"She'll  not.  I'm  runnin'  this  arm." 

McRae  slammed  a  heavy  fist  down  into  the  palm  of 
his  hand.  "I'll  be  showin'  you  aboot  that,  mannie." 

"Hell,  what's  the  use  o'  jawin'?  I'm  goin'  to  wait,  I 
tell  you." 

"Don't  curse  in  my  camp,  Mr.  Morse,  or  whatever 
your  name  is."  The  Scotchman's  blue  eyes  flashed. 
"It's  a  thing  I  do  not  permeet.  Nor  do  I  let  beardless 
lads  tell  me  what  they  will  or  won't  do  here.  Your 
wound  will  be  washed  and  tied  up  if  I  have  to  order  you 
hogtied  first.  So  mak  the  best  o'  that." 

Morse  measured  eyes  with  him  a  moment,  then  gave 
way  with  a  sardonic  laugh.  McRae  had  a  full  share  of 
the  obstinacy  of  his  race. 

"All  right.  I'm  to  be  done  good  to  whether  I  like  it 
or  not.  Go  to  it."  The  trader  pulled  back  the  sleeve  of 
his  shirt  and  stretched  out  a  muscular,  blood-stained  arm. 
An  ugly  flesh  wound  stretched  halfway  from  elbow  to 
wrist. 


20  MAN-SIZE 

Jessie  brought  a  basin,  water,  a  towel,  and  clean  rags. 
By  the  light  of  a  lantern  in  the  hands  of  her  father,  she 
washed  and  tied  up  the  wound.  Her  lips  trembled. 
Strange  little  rivers  of  fire  ran  through  her  veins  when 
her  finger-tips  touched  his  flesh.  Once,  when  she  lifted 
her  eyes,  they  met  his.  He  read  in  them  a  concentrated 
passion  of  hatred. 

Not  even  when  she  had  tied  the  last  knot  in  the  ban 
dage  did  any  of  them  speak.  She  carried  away  the  towel 
and  the  basin  while  McRae  hung  the  lantern  to  a  nail 
in  the  tent  pole  and  brought  from  inside  a  silver- 
mounted  riding-whip.  It  was  one  he  had  bought  as  a 
present  for  his  daughter  last  time  he  had  been  at  Fort 
Benton. 

The  girl  came  back  and  stood  before  him.  A  pulse 
beat  fast  in  her  brown  throat.  The  eyes  betrayed  the 
dread  of  her  soul,  but  they  met  without  flinching  those 
of  the  buffalo-hunter. 

The  Indian  woman  at  the  tent  entrance  made  no  mo 
tion  to  interfere.  The  lord  of  her  life  had  spoken.  So 
it  would  be. 

With  a  strained  little  laugh  Morse  took  a  step  for 
ward.  "I  reckon  I'll  not  stand  out  for  my  pound  of 
flesh,  Mr.  McRae.  Settle  the  damages  for  the  lost  liquor 
and  I'll  call  it  quits." 

The  upper  lip  of  the  Scotchman  was  a  straight  line 
of  resolution.  "I'm  not  thrashing  the  lass  to  please  you, 
but  because  it's  in  the  bond  and  because  she's  earned  it. 
Stand  back,  sir." 

The  whip  swung  up  and  down.  The  girl  gasped  and 
shivered.  A  flame  of  fiery  pain  ran  through  her  body  to 


ANGUS  McRAE  DOES  HIS  DUTY      21 

the  toes.  She  set  her  teeth  to  bite  back  a  scream. 
Before  the  agony  had  passed,  the  whip  was  winding 
round  her  slender  body  again  like  a  red-hot  snake.  It 
fell  with  implacable  rhythmic  regularity. 

Her  pride  and  courage  collapsed.  She  sank  to  her 
knees  with  a  wild  burst  of  wailing  and  entreaties.  At 
last  McRae  stopped. 

Except  for  the  irregular  sobbing  breaths  of  the  girl 
there  was  silence.  The  Indian  woman  crouched  beside 
the  tortured  young  thing  and  rocked  the  dark  head, 
held  close  against  her  bosom,  while  she  crooned  a 
lullaby  in  the  native  tongue. 

McRae,  white  to  the  lips,  turned  upon  his  unwelcome 
guest.  "You 're  nae  doot  wearyin'  to  tak  the  road,  man. 
Bring  your  boss  the  morn  an*  I'll  mak  a  settlement." 

Morse  knew  he  was  dismissed.  He  turned  and  walked 
into  the  darkness  beyond  the  camp-fires.  Unnoticed, 
he  waited  there  in  a  hollow  and  listened.  For  a  long  time 
there  carne  to  him  the  soft  sound  of  weeping,  and  after 
ward  the  murmur  of  voices.  He  knew  that  the  fat  and 
shapeless  squaw  was  pouring  mother  love  from  her  own 
heart  to  the  bleeding  one  of  the  girl. 

Somehow  that  brought  him  comfort.  He  had  a  queer 
feeling  that  he  had  been  a  party  to  some  horrible  out 
rage.  Yet  all  that  had  taken  place  was  the  whipping  of 
an  Indian  girl.  He  tried  to  laugh  away  the  weak  sym 
pathy  in  his  heart. 

But  the  truth  was  that  inside  he  was  a  wild  river  of 
woe  for  her. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  WOLFERS 

WHEN  Tom  Morse  reached  camp  he  found  Bully  West 
stamping  about  in  a  heady  rage.  The  fellow  was  a  giant 
of  a  man,  almost  muscle-bound  in  his  huge  solidity. 
His  shoulders  were  rounded  with  the  heavy  pack  of 
knotted  sinews  they  carried.  His  legs  were  bowed  from 
much  riding.  It  was  his  boast  that  he  could  bend  a 
silver  dollar  double  in  the  palm  of  his  hand.  Men  had 
seen  him  twist  the  tail  rod  of  a  wagon  into  a  knot. 
Sober,  he  was  a  sulky,  domineering  brute  with  the  in 
stincts  of  a  bully.  In  liquor,  the  least  difference  of 
opinion  became  for  him  a  cause  of  quarrel. 

Most  men  gave  him  a  wide  berth,  and  for  the  sake  of 
peace  accepted  sneers  and  insults  that  made  the  blood 
boil. 

"Where  you  been  all  this  time?"  he  growled. 

"Ploughin'  around  over  the  plains." 

"Did  n't  you  hear  me  callin'?" 

"D'you  call?  I've  been  quite  a  ways  from  camp. 
Bumped  into  Angus  McRae's  buffalo-hunting  outfit. 
He  wants  to  see  us  to-morrow." 

"What  for?" 

"Something  about  to-night's  business.  Seems  he 
knows  who  did  it.  Offers  to  settle  for  what  we  lost." 

Bully  West  stopped  in  his  stride,  feet  straddled, 
head  thrust  forward.  "What's  that?" 


THE  WOLFERS  23 

"Like  I  say.    We're  to  call  on  him  to-morrow  for  a 
settlement,  you  V  me." 

"Did  McRae  bust  our  barrels?" 

"He  knows  something  about  it.  Didn't  have  time 
to  talk  long  with  him.  I  hustled  right  back  to  tell  you." 

"He  can  come  here  if  he  wants  to  see  me,"  West 
announced. 

This  called  for  no  answer  and  Tom  gave  it  none.  He 
moved  across  to  the  spot  where  the  oxen  were  picketed 
and  made  sure  the  pins  were  still  fast.  Presently  he 
rolled  his  blanket  round  him  and  looked  up  into  a  sky 
all  stars.  Usually  he  dropped  asleep  as  soon  as  his  head 
touched  the  seat  of  the  saddle  he  used  as  a  pillow.  But 
to-night  he  lay  awake  for  hours.  He  could  not  get  out 
of  his  mind  the  girl  he  had  met  and  taken  to  punish 
ment.  A  dozen  pictures  of  her  rose  before  him,  all  of 
them  mental  snapshots  snatched  from  his  experience 
of  the  night.  Now  he  was  struggling  to  hold  her  down, 
his  knees  clamped  to  her  writhing,  muscular  torso. 
Again  he  held  her  by  the  strong,  velvet-smooth  arms 
while  her  eyes  blazed  fury  and  defiance  at  him.  Or  her 
stinging  words  pelted  him  as  she  breasted  the  hill 
slopes  with  supple  ease.  Most  vivid  of  all  were  the  ones 
at  her  father's  camp,  especially  those  when  she  was 
under  the  torture  of  the  whip. 

No  wonder  she  hated  him  for  what  he  had  done  to 
her. 

He  shook  himself  into  a  more  comfortable  position 
and  began  to  count  stars.  .  .  .  Ninety -five,  ninety-six, 
ninety-seven.  .  .  .  What  was  the  use  of  stressing  the 
affair,  anyhow?  She  was  only  a  half-breed.  In  ten 


24  MAN-SIZE 

years  she  would  be  fat,  shapeless,  dirty,  and  repellent. 
Her  conversation  would  be  reduced  to  grunts.  The 
glance  he  had  had  at  her  mother  was  illuminating. 

Where  was  he?  .  .  .  One  hundred  eleven,  twelve, 
thirteen.  .  .  .  Women  had  not  obtruded  much  into 
his  life.  He  had  lived  in  the  wind  and  the  sun  of  the 
outdoors,  much  of  the  time  in  the  saddle.  Lawless  he 
was,  but  there  was  a  clean  strain  in  his  blood.  He  had 
always  felt  an  indifferent  contempt  for  a  squaw-man. 
An  American  declassed  himself  when  he  went  in  for 
that  sort  of  thing,  even  if  he  legalized  the  union  by  some 
form  of  marriage.  In  spite  of  her  magnificent  physical 
inheritance  of  health  and  vitality,  in  spite  of  the  quick 
and  passionate  spirit  that  informed  her,  she  would  be 
the  product  of  her  environment  and  ancestry,  held 
close  to  barbarism  all  her  life.  The  man  who  mated 
with  her  would  be  dragged  down  to  her  level. 

Two  hundred  three,  four,  five.  .  .  .  How  game  she 
had  been!  She  had  played  it  out  like  a  thoroughbred, 
even  to  telling  her  father  that  he  was  to  use  the  horse 
whip  in  punishing  her.  He  had  never  before  seen  a 
creature  so  splendid  or  so  spirited.  Squaw  or  no  squaw, 
he  took  off  his  hat  to  her. 

The  sun  had  climbed  the  hilltop  when  Morse  wak 
ened. 

"Come  an'  get  it!"  Barney  the  cook  was  yelling  at 
him. 

Bully  West  had  changed  his  mind  about  not  going  to 
the  buffalo-hunter's  camp. 

"You  V  Brad '11  stay  here,  Barney,  while  me  V 
Tom  are  gone,"  he  gave  orders.  "And  you'll  keep  a 


THE  WOLFERS  25 

sharp  lookout  for  raiders.  If  any  one  shows  up  that 
you're  dubious  of,  plug  him  and  ask  questions  after 
ward.  Understand?" 

"I  hear  ye,"  replied  Barney,  a  small  cock-eyed  man 
with  a  malevolent  grin.  "An*  we'll  do  just  that,  boss." 

Long  before  the  traders  reached  it,  the  camp  of  the 
buffalo-hunters  advertised  its  presence  by  the  stench  of 
decaying  animal  matter.  Hundreds  of  hides  were  pegged 
to  the  ground.  Men  and  women,  squatting  on  their 
heels,  scraped  bits  of  fat  from  the  drying  skins.  Already 
a  train  of  fifty  Red  River  carts 1  stood  ready  for  the 
homeward  start,  loaded  with  robes  tied  down  by  means 
of  rawhide  strips  to  stand  the  jolting  across  the  plains. 
Not  far  away  other  women  were  making  pemmican 
of  fried  buffalo  meat  and  fat,  pounded  together  and 
packed  with  hot  grease  in  skin  bags.  This  food  was  a 
staple  winter  diet  and  had  too  a  market  value  for  trade 
to  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company,  which  shipped  thou 
sands  of  sacks  yearly  to  its  northern  posts  on  the 
Peace  and  the  Mackenzie  Rivers. 

The  children  and  the  sound  of  their  laughter  gave  the 
camp  a  domestic  touch.  Some  of  the  brown,  half -naked 
youngsters,  their  skins  glistening  in  the  warm  sun, 
were  at  work  doing  odd  jobs.  Others,  too  young  to 
fetch  and  carry,  played  with  a  litter  of  puppies  or  with 
a  wolf  cub  that  had  been  caught  and  tamed. 

The  whole  bustling  scene  was  characteristic  of  time 
and  place.  A  score  of  such  outfits,  each  with  its  Red 

1  The  Red  River  cart  was  a  primitive  two- wheeled  affair,  made  entirely 
of  wood,  without  nails  or  metal  tires.  It  was  usually  drawn  by  an  ox. 
(W.  M.  R.) 


26  MAN-SIZE 

River  carts  and  its  oxen,  its  dogs,  its  women  and  chil 
dren,  traveled  to  the  plains  each  spring  to  hunt  the 
bison.  They  killed  thousands  upon  thousands  of  them, 
for  it  took  several  animals  to  make  a  sack  of  pemmican 
weighing  one  hundred  fifty  pounds.  The  waste  was 
enormous,  since  only  the  choicest  cuts  of  meat  were 
used. 

Already  the  buffalo  were  diminishing  in  numbers. 
Vast  hordes  still  roamed  the  plains.  They  could  be 
killed  by  scores  and  hundreds.  But  the  end  was  near. 
It  had  been  several  years  since  Colonel  Dodge  reported 
that  he  had  halted  his  party  of  railroad  builders  two 
days  to  let  a  herd  of  over  half  a  million  bison  pass. 
Such  a  sight  was  no  longer  possible.  The  pressure  of 
the  hunters  had  divided  the  game  into  the  northern  and 
the  southern  herds.  Within  four  or  five  years  the 
slaughter  was  to  be  so  great  that  only  a  few  groups  of 
buffalo  would  be  left. 

The  significance  of  this  extermination  lay  largely  in 
its  application  to  the  Indians.  The  plains  tribes  were 
fed  and  clothed  and  armed  and  housed  by  means  of  the 
buffalo.  Even  the  canoes  of  the  lake  Indians  were  made 
from  buffalo  skins.  The  failure  of  the  supply  reduced 
the  natives  from  warriors  to  beggars. 

McRae  came  forward  to  meet  the  traders,  the  sleeves 
of  his  shirt  rolled  to  the  elbows  of  his  muscular  brown 
arms.  He  stroked  a  great  red  beard  and  nodded  gruffly. 
It  was  not  in  his  dour  honest  nature  to  pretend  that  he 
was  glad  to  see  them  when  he  was  not. 

"Well,  I'm  here,"  growled  West,  interlarding  a  few 
oaths  as  a  necessary  corollary  of  his  speech.  "What's 


THE  WOLFERS  27 

it  all  about,  McRae?  What  do  you  know  about  the 
smashing  of  our  barrels?" 

"I'll  settle  any  reasonable  damage,"  the  hunter  said. 

Bully  West  frowned.  He  spread  his  legs  deliberately, 
folded  his  arms,  and  spat  tobacco  juice  upon  a  clean 
hide  drying  in  the  sun.  "Hold  yore  hawsses  a  minute. 
The  damage  '11  be  enough.  Don't  you  worry  about  that. 
But  first  off,  I  aim  to  know  who  raided  our  camp.  Then 
I  reckon  I'll  whop  him  till  he's  wore  to  a  frazzle." 

Under  heavy,  grizzled  brows  McRae  looked  long  at 
him.  Both  were  outstanding  figures  by  reason  of  per 
sonality  and  physique.  One  was  a  constructive  force, 
the  other  destructive.  There  was  a  suggestion  of  the 
gorilla  in  West's  long  arms  matted  with  hair,  in  the 
muscles  of  back  and  shoulders  so  gnarled  and  knotted 
that  they  gave  him  almost  a  deformed  appearance.  Big 
and  broad  though  he  was,  the  Scot  was  the  smaller. 
But  power  harnessed  and  controlled  expressed  itself 
in  every  motion  of  the  body.  Moreover,  the  blue  eyes 
that  looked  straight  and  hard  out  of  the  ruddy  face 
told  of  coordination  between  mind  and  matter. 

Angus  McRae  was  that  rare  product,  an  honest,  out 
spoken  man.  He  sought  to  do  justice  to  all  with  whom 
he  had  dealings.  Part  of  West's  demand  was  fair,  he 
reflected.  The  trader  had  a  right  to  know  all  the  facts 
in  the  case.  But  the  old  Hudson's  Bay  trapper  had  a 
great  reluctance  to  tell  them.  His  instinct  to  protect 
Jessie  was  strong. 

"I've  saved  ye  the  trouble,  Mr.  West.  The  guilty 
yin  was  o'  my  ain  family.  Your  young  man  will  tell  ye 
I've  done  a'  the  horsewhippin'  that's  necessary." 


28  MAN-SIZE 

The  big  trail  boss  looked  blackly  at  his  helper.  He 
would  settle  with  Morse  at  the  proper  time.  Now  he  had 
other  business  on  hand. 

"Come  clean,  McRae.  Who  was  it?  There'll  be 
nothin'  doin'  till  I  know  that,"  he  growled. 

"My  daughter." 

West  glared  at  him,  for  once  astonished  out  of  pro 
fanity. 

"What?" 

"My  daughter  Jessie." 

"Goddlemighty,  d'  ja  mean  to  tell  me  a  girl  did  it?" 
He  threw  back  his  head  in  a  roar  of  Homeric  laughter. 
"Ever  hear  the  beat  of  that?  A  damn  HT  Injun  squaw 
play  in'  her  tricks  on  Bully  West!  If  she  was  mine  I'd 
tickle  her  back  for  it." 

The  eyes  in  the  Scotchman's  granite  face  flashed. 
"Man,  can  you  never  say  twa-three  words  withoot  pro 
fanity?  This  is  a  God-fearin'  camp.  There's  nae  place 
here  for  those  who  tak  His  name  in  vain." 

"Smashed  'em  with  her  own  hands  —  is  that  what 
you  mean?  I'll  give  it  to  her  that  she's  a  plucky  li'P 
devil,  even  if  she  is  a  nitchie." 

McRae  reproved  him  stiffly.  "You'll  please  to  re 
member  that  you  're  talking  of  my  daughter,  Mr.  West. 
I'll  allow  no  such  language  aboot  her.  You're  here  to 
settle  a  business  matter.  What  do  ye  put  the  damage 
at?" 

They  agreed  on  a  price,  to  be  paid  in  hides  delivered 
at  Whoop-Up.  West  turned  and  went  straddling  to  the 
place  where  he  and  Morse  had  left  their  horses.  On  the 
way  he  came  face  to  face  with  a  girl,  a  lithe,  dusky 


THE  WOLFERS  29 

young  creature,  Indian  brown,  the  tan  of  a  hundred 
summer  suns  and  winds  painted  on  the  oval  of  her  lifted 
chin.  She  was  carrying  a  package  of  sacks  to  the  place 
where  the  pemmican  was  being  made. 

West's  eyes  narrowed.  They  traveled  up  and  down 
her  slender  body.  They  gloated  on  her. 

After  one  scornful  glance  which  swept  over  and  ig 
nored  Morse,  the  girl  looked  angrily  at  the  man  barring 
her  way.  Slowly  the  blood  burned  into  her  cheeks. 
For  there  was  that  in  the  trader's  smoldering  eyes  that 
would  have  insulted  any  modest  maiden. 

"You  Jessie  McRae?"  he  demanded,  struck  of  a 
sudden  with  an  idea. 

"Yes." 

"You  smashed  my  whiskey -barrels?" 

"My  father  has  told  you.  If  he  says  so,  is  n't  that 
enough?" 

He  slapped  an  immense  hand  on  his  thigh,  hugely 
diverted.  "You  damn  HT  high-steppin'  filly!  Why? 
What  in  hell  'd  I  ever  do  to  you?" 

Angus  McRae  strode  forward,  eyes  blazing.  He  had 
married  a  Cree  woman,  had  paid  for  her  to  her  father 
seven  ponies,  a  yard  of  tobacco,  and  a  bottle  of  whiskey. 
His  own  two-fisted  sons  were  metis.  The  Indian  in  them 
showed  more  plainly  than  the  Celt.  Their  father  ac 
cepted  the  fact  without  resentment.  But  there  was  in 
his  heart  a  queer  feeling  about  the  little  lass  he  had 
adopted.  Her  light,  springing  step,  the  lift  of  the  throat 
and  the  fearlessness  of  the  eye,  the  instinct  in  her  for 
cleanliness  of  mind  and  body,  carried  him  back  forty 
years  to  the  land  of  heather,  to  a  memory  of  the  laird's 


30  MAN-SIZE 

daughter  whom  he  had  worshiped  with  the  hopeless 
adoration  of  a  red-headed  gillie.  It  had  been  the  one 
romance  of  his  life,  and  somehow  it  had  reincarnated  it 
self  in  his  love  for  the  half-breed  girl.  To  him  it  seemed 
a  contradiction  of  nature  that  Jessie  should  be  related 
to  the  flat-footed  squaws  who  were  slaves  to  their  lords. 
He  could  not  reconcile  his  heart  to  the  knowledge  that 
she  was  of  mixed  blood.  She  was  too  fine,  too  dainty, 
of  too  free  and  imperious  a  spirit. 

"Your  horses  are  up  the  hill,  Mr.  West,"  he  said 
pointedly. 

It  is  doubtful  whether  the  trader  heard.  He  could  not 
keep  his  desirous  eyes  from  the  girl. 

"Is  she  a  half-  or  a  quarter-breed?"  he  asked  McRae. 

"That'll  be  her  business  and  mine,  sir.  Will  you 
please  tak  the  road?"  The  hunter  spoke  quietly,  re 
straining  himself  from  an  outbreak.  But  his  voice 
carried  an  edge. 

"By  Gad,  she's  some  clipper,"  West  said,  aloud  to 
himself,  just  as  though  the  girl  had  not  been  present. 

"Will  you  leave  my  daughter  oot  o'  your  talk,  man?" 
warned  the  Scotchman. 

"What's  ailin'  you?"  West's  sulky,  insolent  eyes 
turned  on  the  buffalo-hunter.  "A  nitchie's  a  nitchie. 
Me,  I  talk  straight.  But  I  aim  to  be  reasonable  too. 
I  don't  like  a  woman  less  because  she's  got  the  devil  in 
her.  Bully  West  knows  how  to  tame  'em  so  they  '11  eat 
outa  his  hand.  I've  took  a  fancy  to  yore  girl.  Tha  's 
right,  McRae." 

"You  may  go  to  the  tent,  Jessie,"  the  girl's  father  told 
her.  He  was  holding  his  temper  in  leash  with  difficulty. 


THE  WOLFERS  31 

"Wait  a  mo."  The  big  trader  held  out  his  arm  to  bar 
the  way.  "Don't  push  on  yore  reins,  McRae.  I'm 
makin'  you  a  proposition.  Me,  I'm  lookin'  for  a  wife, 
an*  this  here  breed  girl  of  yours  suits  me.  Give  her  to  me 
an'  I  '11  call  the  whole  thing  square.  Could  n't  say 
fairer  than  that,  could  I?" 

The  rugged  hunter  looked  at  the  big  malformed 
border  ruffian  with  repulsion.  "Man,  you  gi'e  me  a 
scunner,"  he  said.  "Have  done  wi'  this  foolishness  an' 
be  gone.  The  lass  is  no'  for  you  or  the  like  o'  you." 

"Hell's  hinges,  you  ain't  standin'  there  tellin'  me 
that  a  Cree  breed  is  too  good  for  Bully  West,  are  you?" 
roared  the  big  whiskey-runner. 

"A  hundred  times  too  good  for  you.  I'd  rather  see 
the  lass  dead  in  her  coffin  than  have  her  life  ruined  by 
you,"  McRae  answered  in  dead  earnest. 

"You  don't  get  me  right,  Mac,"  answered  the  smug 
gler,  swallowing  his  rage.  "I  know  yore  religious  no 
tions.  We'll  stand  up  before  a  sky  pilot  and  have  this 
done  right.  I  aim  to  treat  this  girl  handsome." 

Jessie  had  turned  away  at  her  father's  command. 
Now  she  turned  swiftly  upon  the  trader,  eyes  flashing. 
"I'd  rather  Father  would  drive  a  knife  in  my  heart  than 
let  me  be  married  to  a  wolfer!"  she  cried  passionately. 

His  eyes,  untrammeled  by  decency,  narrowed  to  feast 
on  the  brown  immature  beauty  of  her  youth. 

"Tha'  so?"  he  jeered.  "Well,  the  time  's  comin'  when 
you'll  go  down  on  yore  pretty  knees  an'  beg  me  not  to 
leave  you.  It'll  be  me  'n'  you  one  o'  these  days.  Make 
up  yore  mind  to  that." 

"Never!  Never!  I 'd  die  first !"  she  exploded. 


32  MAN-SIZE 

Bully  West  showed  his  broken,  tobacco-stained  teeth 
in  a  mirthless  grin.  "We'll  see  about  that,  dearie." 

"March,  lass.  Your  mother  '11  be  needin'  you," 
McRae  said  sharply. 

The  girl  looked  at  West,  then  at  Morse.  From  the 
scorn  of  that  glance  she  might  have  been  a  queen  and 
they  the  riffraff  of  the  land.  She  walked  to  the  tent. 
Not  once  did  she  look  back. 

"You've  had  your  answer  both  from  her  and  me. 
Let  that  be  an  end  o'  it,"  McRae  said  with  finality. 

The  trader's  anger  ripped  out  in  a  crackle  of  obscene 
oaths.  They  garnished  the  questions  that  he  snarled. 
"Wha's  the  matter  with  me?  Why  ain't  I  good  enough 
for  yore  half-breed  litter?" 

It  was  a  spark  to  gunpowder.  The  oaths,  the  insult, 
the  whole  degrading  episode,  combined  to  drive  McRae 
out  of  the  self-restraint  he  had  imposed  on  himself.  He 
took  one  step  forward.  With  a  wide  sweep  of  the 
clenched  fist  he  buffeted  the  smuggler  on  the  ear. 
Taken  by  surprise,  West  went  spinning  against  the 
wheel  of  a  cart. 

The  man's  head  sank  between  his  shoulders  and 
thrust  forward.  A  sound  that  might  have  come  from 
an  infuriated  grizzly  rumbled  from  the  hairy  throat. 
His  hand  reached  for  a  revolver. 

Morse  leaped  like  a  crouched  cat.  Both  hands  caught 
at  Wrest's  arm.  The  old  hunter  was  scarcely  an  instant 
behind  him.  His  fingers  closed  on  the  wrist  just  above 
the  weapon. 

"Hands  off,"  he  ordered  Morse.  "This  is  no'  your 
quarrel." 


THE  WOLFERS  33 

The  youngster's  eyes  met  the  blazing  blue  ones  of  the 
Scot.  His  fingers  loosened  their  hold.  He  stepped  back. 

The  two  big  men  strained.  One  fought  with  every 
ounce  of  power  in  him  to  twist  the  arm  from  him  till  the 
cords  and  sinews  strained ;  the  other  to  prevent  this  and 
to  free  the  wrist.  It  was  a  test  of  sheer  strength. 

Each  labored,  breathing  deep,  his  whole  energy  cen 
tered  on  coordinated  effort  of  every  muscle.  They  strug 
gled  in  silence  except  for  the  snarling  grunts  of  the 
whiskey-runner. 

Slowly,  almost  imperceptibly  at  first,  the  wrist  began 
to  turn  from  McRae.  Sweat  beads  gathered  on  West's 
face.  He  fought  furiously  to  hold  his  own.  But  the 
arm  turned  inexorably. 

The  trader  groaned.  As  the  cords  tightened  and 
shoots  of  torturing  pain  ran  up  the  arm,  the  huge 
body  of  the  man  writhed.  The  revolver  fell  from  his 
paralyzed  fingers.  His  wobbling  knees  sagged  and 
collapsed. 

McRae's  fingers  loosened  as  the  man  slid  down  and 
caught  the  bull-like  throat.  His  grip  tightened.  West 
fought  savagely  to  break  it.  He  could  as  soon  have 
freed  himself  from  the  clamp  of  a  vice. 

The  Scotchman  shook  him  till  he  was  black  in  the 
face,  then  flung  him  reeling  away. 

"Get  oot,  ye  yellow  wolf!"  he  roared.  "Or  fegs} 
I'll  break  every  bone  in  your  hulkin'  body.  Oot  o'  my 
camp,  the  pair  o'  you!" 

W'est,  strangling,  gasped  for  air,  as  does  a  catfish 
on  the  bank.  He  leaned  on  the  cart  wheel  until  he  was 
able  to  stand.  The  help  of  Morse  he  brushed  aside 


34  MAN-SIZE 

with  a  sputtered  oath.  His  eyes  never  left  the  man  who 
had  beaten  him.  He  snarled  like  a  whipped  wolf.  The 
hunter's  metaphor  had  been  an  apt  one.  The  horrible 
lust  to  kill  was  stamped  on  his  distorted,  grinning  face, 
but  for  the  present  the  will  alone  was  not  enough. 

McRae's  foot  was  on  the  revolver.  His  son  Fergus, 
a  swarthy,  good-looking  youngster,  had  come  up  and 
was  standing  quietly  behind  his  father.  Other  hunters 
were  converging  toward  their  chief. 

The  Indian  trader  swore  a  furious  oath  of  vengeance. 
Morse  tried  to  lead  him  away. 

"Some  day  I'll  get  yore  squaw  girl  right,  McRae, 
an'  then  God  help  her,"  he  threatened. 

The  bully  lurched  straddling  away. 

Morse,  a  sardonic  grin  on  his  lean  face,  followed  him 
over  the  hill. 


CHAPTER  V 
MORSE  JUMPS  UP  TROUBLE 

"THREW  me  down,  did  n't  you?"  snarled  West  out  of 
the  corner  of  bis  mouth.  "Knew  all  the  time  she  did  it 
an'  never  let  on  to  me.  A  hell  of  a  way  to  treat  a  friend." 

Tom  Morse  said  nothing.  He  made  mental  reserva 
tions  about  the  word  friend,  but  did  not  care  to  express 
them.  His  somber  eyes  watched  the  big  man  jerk  the 
spade  bit  cruelly  and  rowel  the  bronco  when  it  went 
into  the  air.  It  was  a  pleasure  to  West  to  torture  an 
animal  when  no  human  was  handy,  though  he  preferred 
women  and  even  men  as  victims. 

"Whad  he  mean  when  he  said  you  could  tell  me  how 
he'd  settled  with  her?"  he  growled. 

"He  whipped  her  last  night  when  I  took  her  back  to 
camp." 

"Took  her  back  to  camp,  did  you?  Why  did  n't  you 
bring  her  to  me?  Who's  in  charge  of  this  outfit,  any 
how,  young  fellow,  me  lad?" 

"McRae  's  too  big  a  man  for  us  to  buck.  Too  influ 
ential  with  the  half-breeds.  I  figured  it  was  safer  to 
get  her  right  home  to  him."  The  voice  of  the  younger 
man  was  mild  and  conciliatory. 

"You  figured!"  West's  profanity  polluted  the  clear, 
crisp  morning  air.  "I  got  to  have  a  run  in  with  you 
right  soon.  I  can  see  that.  Think  because  you're  C.  N. 
Morse's  nephew,  you  can  slip  yore  funny  business  over 
on  me.  I'll  show  you." 


36  MAN-SIZE 

The  reddish  light  glinted  for  a  moment  in  the  eyes 
of  Morse,  but  he  said  nothing.  Young  though  he  was, 
he  had  a  capacity  for  silence.  West  was  not  sensitive 
to  atmospheres,  but  he  felt  the  force  of  this  young  man. 
It  was  not  really  in  his  mind  to  quarrel  with  him.  For 
one  thing  he  would  soon  be  a  partner  in  the  firm  of  C.  N. 
Morse  &  Company,  of  Fort  Benton,  one  of  the  biggest 
trading  outfits  in  the  country.  West  could  not  afford  to 
break  with  the  Morse  interests. 

With  their  diminished  cargo  the  traders  pushed  north. 
Their  destination  was  Whoop-Up,  at  the  junction  of  the 
Belly  and  the  St.  Mary's  Rivers.  This  fort  had  become 
a  rendezvous  for  all  the  traders  within  hundreds  of 
miles,  a  point  of  supply  for  many  small  posts  scattered 
along  the  rivers  of  the  North. 

Twelve  oxen  were  hitched  to  each  three- wagon  load. 
Four  teams  had  left  Fort  Benton  together,  but  two  of 
them  had  turned  east  toward  Wood  Mountain  before 
the  party  was  out  of  the  Assiniboine  country.  West  had 
pushed  across  JxHiesome  Prairie  to  the  Sweet  Grass 
Hills  and  from  there  over  the  line  into  Canada. 

Under  the  best  of  conditions  West  was  no  pleasant 
traveling  companion.  Now  he  was  in  a  state  of  contin 
ual  sullen  ill-temper.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  had 
been  publicly  worsted.  Practically  he  had  been  kicked 
out  of  the  buffalo  camp,  just  as  though  he  were  a 
drunken  half-breed  and  not  one  whose  barroom  brawls 
were  sagas  of  the  frontier. 

His  vanity  was  notorious,  and  it  had  been  flagrantly 
outraged.  He  would  never  be  satisfied  until  he  had 
found  a  way  to  get  his  revenge.  More  than  once  his 


MORSE  JUMPS  UP  TROUBLE          37 

simmering  anger  leaped  out  at  the  young  fellow  who 
had  been  a  witness  of  his  defeat.  In  the  main  he  kept 
his  rage  sulkily  repressed.  If  Tom  Morse  wanted  to  tell 
of  the  affair  with  McRae,  he  could  lessen  the  big  man's 
prestige.  West  did  not  want  that. 

The  outfit  crossed  the  Milk  River,  skirted  Pakoghkee 
Lake,  and  swung  westward  in  the  direction  of  the  Por 
cupine  Hills.  Barney  had  been  a  trapper  in  the  country 
and  knew  where  the  best  grass  was  to  be  found.  In 
many  places  the  feed  was  scant.  It  had  been  cropped 
close  by  the  great  herds  of  buffalo  roaming  the  plains. 
Most  of  the  lakes  were  polluted  by  the  bison,  so  that 
whenever  possible  their  guide  found  camps  by  running 
water.  The  teams  moved  along  the  Belly  River  through 
the  sand  hills. 

Tom  Morse  was  a  crack  shot  and  did  the  hunting  for 
the  party.  The  evening  before  the  train  reached  Whoop- 
Up,  he  walked  out  from  camp  to  try  for  an  antelope, 
since  they  were  short  of  fresh  meat.  He  climbed  a  small 
butte  overlooking  the  stream.  His  keen  eyes  swept  the 
panorama  and  came  to  rest  on  a  sight  he  had  never 
before  seen  and  would  never  forget. 

A  large  herd  of  buffalo  had  come  down  to  the  river 
crossing.  They  were  swimming  the  stream  against  a 
strong  current,  their  bodies  low  in  the  water  and  so 
closely  packed  that  he  could  almost  have  stepped  from 
one  shaggy  head  to  another.  Not  fifty  yards  from  him 
they  scrambled  ashore  and  went  lumbering  into  the 
hazy  dusk.  Something  had  frightened  them  and  they 
were  on  a  stampede.  Even  the  river  had  not  stopped 
their  flight.  The  earth  shook  with  their  tread  as  they 
found  their  stride. 


38  MAN-SIZE 

That  wild  flight  into  the  gathering  darkness  was 
symbolic,  Morse  fancied.  The  vast  herds  were  vanish 
ing  never  to  return.  Were  they  galloping  into  the  Happy 
Hunting  Ground  the  Indians  prayed  for?  What  would 
come  of  their  flight?  When  the  plains  knew  them  no 
more,  how  would  the  Sioux  and  the  Blackfeet  and  the 
Piegans  live?  Would  the  Lonesome  Lands  become  even 
more  desolate  than  they  were  now? 

"I  wonder,"  he  murmured  aloud. 

It  is  certain  that  he  could  have  had  no  vision  of  the 
empire  soon  to  be  built  out  of  the  desert  by  himself  and 
men  of  his  stamp.  Not  even  dimly  could  he  have  con 
ceived  a  picture  of  the  endless  wheat-fields  that  would 
stretch  across  the  plains,  of  the  farmers  who  would  pour 
into  the  North  by  hundreds  of  thousands,  of  the  cities 
which  would  rise  in  the  sand  hills  as  a  monument  to 
man's  restless  push  of  progress  and  his  indomitable 
hope.  No  living  man's  imagination  had  yet  dreamed 
of  the  transformation  of  this  terra  incognita  into  one  of 
the  world's  great  granaries. 

The  smoke  of  the  traders'  camp-fire  was  curling  up 
and  drifting  away  into  thin  veils  of  film  before  the  sun 
showed  over  the  horizon  hills.  The  bull-teams  had  taken 
up  their  steady  forward  push  while  the  quails  were  still 
flying  to  and  from  their  morning  water-holes. 

"Whoop-Up  by  noon,"  Barney  predicted. 

"Yes,  by  noon,"  Tom  Morse  agreed.  "In  time  for  a 
real  sure-enough  dinner  with  potatoes  and  beans  and 
green  stuff." 

"  Y'  bet  yore  boots,  an'  honest  to  gosh  gravy,"  added 
Brad  Stearns,  a  thin  and  wrinkled  little  man  whose 


MORSE  JUMPS  UP  TROUBLE          39 

leathery  face  and  bright  eyes  defied  the  encroachment 
of  time.  He  was  bald,  except  for  a  fringe  of  grayish 
hair  above  the  temples  and  a  few  long  locks  carefully 
disposed  over  his  shiny  crown.  But  nobody  could  have 
looked  at  him  and  called  him  old. 

They  were  to  be  disappointed. 

The  teams  struck  the  dusty  road  that  terminated  at 
the  fort  and  were  plodding  along  it  to  the  crackling  ac 
companiment  of  the  long  bull- whips. 

"Soon  now,"  Morse  shouted  to  Stearns. 

The  little  man  nodded.  "Mebbe  they'll  have  green 
corn  on  the  cob.  Betcha  the  price  of  the  dinner  they  do." 

"You've  made  a  bet,  dad." 

Stearns  halted  the  leaders.    "What's  that?   Listen." 

The  sound  of  shots  drifted  to  them  punctuated  by 
faint,  far  yells.  The  shots  did  not  come  in  a  fusillade. 
They  were  intermittent,  died  down,  popped  out  again, 
yielded  to  whoops  in  distant  crescendo. 

"Injuns,"  said  Stearns.  "On  the  peck,  looks  like. 
Crees  and  Blackfeet,  maybe,  but  you  never  can  tell. 
Better  throw  off  the  trail  and  dig  in." 

West  had  ridden  up.  He  nodded.  "Till  we  know 
where  we're  at.  Get  busy,  boys." 

They  drew  up  the  wagons  in  a  semicircle,  end  to  end, 
the  oxen  bunched  inside,  partially  protected  by  a  small 
cottonwood  grove  in  the  rear. 

This  done,  West  gave  further  orders.  "We  gotta  find 
out  what 's  doin'.  Chances  are  it 's  nothin'  but  a  coupla 
bunches  of  braves  with  a  cargo  of  redeye  aboard,  Tom, 
you  an'  Brad  scout  out  an'  take  a  look-see.  Don't  be 
too  venturesome.  Soon's  you  find  out  what  the  rumpus 


40  MAN-SIZE 

is,  hot-foot  it  back  and  report,  y'  understand."  The  big 
wolfer  snapped  out  directions  curtly.  There  was  no 
more  competent  wagon  boss  in  the  border-land  than  he. 

Stearns  and  Morse  rode  toward  the  fort.  They  de 
flected  from  the  road  and  followed  the  river-bank  to  take 
advantage  of  such  shrubbery  as  grew  there.  They 
moved  slowly  and  cautiously,  for  in  the  Indian  country 
one  took  no  unnecessary  chances.  From  the  top  of  a 
small  rise,  shielded  by  a  clump  of  willows,  the  two 
looked  down  on  a  field  of  battle  already  decided.  Bul 
lets  and  arrows  were  still  flying,  but  the  defiant,  tri 
umphant  war-whoops  of  a  band  of  painted  warriors 
slowly  moving  toward  them  showed  that  the  day  was 
won  and  lost.  A  smaller  group  of  Indians  was  retreating 
toward  the  swamp  on  the  left-hand  side  of  the  road. 
Two  or  three  dead  braves  lay  in  the  grassy  swale  be 
tween  the  foes. 

"I  done  guessed  it,  first  crack,"  Brad  said.  "Crees 
and  Blackfeet.  They  sure  enough  do  mix  it  whenever 
they  get  together.  The  Crees  ce'tainly  got  the  jump  on 
'em  this  time." 

It  was  an  old  story.  From  the  northern  woods  the 
Crees  had  come  down  to  trade  at  the  fort.  They  had 
met  a  band  of  Blackfeet  who  had  traveled  up  from  the 
plains  for  the  same  purpose.  Filled  with  bad  liquor, 
the  hereditary  enemies  had  as  usual  adjourned  to  the 
ground  outside  for  a  settlement  while  the  traders  at 
the  fort  had  locked  the  gates  and  watched  the  battle 
from  the  loopholes  of  the  stockade. 

"Reckon  we  better  blow  back  to  camp,"  suggested 
the  old  plainsman.  "Mr.  Cree  may  be  feelin'  his  oats 


MORSE  JUMPS  UP  TROUBLE          41 

heap  much.  White  man  look  all  same  Blackfeet  to  him 
like  as  not." 

"Look."  Morse  pointed  to  a  dip  in  the  swale. 

An  Indian  was  limping  through  the  brush,  taking 
advantage  of  such  cover  as  he  could  find.  He  was 
wounded.  His  leg  dragged  and  he  moved  with  difficulty. 

"He'll  be  a  good  Injun  mighty  soon,"  Stearns  said, 
rubbing  his  bald  head  as  it  shone  in  the  sun.  "Not  a 
chance  in  the  world  for  him.  They'll  git  him  soon  as 
they  reach  the  coulee.  See.  They're  stoppin' to  collect 
that  other  fellow's  scalp." 

At  a  glance  Morse  had  seen  the  situation.  This  was 
none  of  his  affair.  It  was  tacitly  understood  that  the 
traders  should  not  interfere  in  the  intertribal  quarrels  of 
the  natives.  But  old  Brad's  words,  "good  Injun,"  had 
carried  him  back  to  a  picture  of  a  brown,  slim  girl 
flashing  indignation  because  Americans  treated  her  race 
as  though  only  dead  Indians  were  good  ones.  He  could 
never  tell  afterward  what  was  the  rational  spring  of  his 
impulse. 

At  the  touch  of  the  rein  laid  flat  against  its  neck,  the 
cow-pony  he  rode  laid  back  its  ears,  turned  like  a 
streak  of  light,  and  leaped  to  a  hand  gallop.  It  swept 
down  the  slope  and  along  the  draw,  gathering  speed  with 
every  jump. 

The  rider  let  out  a  "Hi-yi-yi "  to  attract  the  attention 
of  the  wounded  brave.  Simultaneously  the  limping 
fugitive  and  the  Crees  caught  sight  of  the  flying  horse 
man  who  had  obtruded  himself  into  the  fire  zone. 

An  arrow  whistled  past  Morse.  He  saw  a  bullet 
throw  up  a  spurt  of  dirt  beneath  the  belly  of  his  horse. 


42  MAN-SIZE 

The  Crees  were  close  to  their  quarry.  They  closed 
in  with  a  run.  Tom  knew  it  would  be  a  near  thing.  He 
slackened  speed  slightly  and  freed  a  foot  from  the  stir 
rup,  stiffening  it  to  carry  weight. 

The  wounded  Indian  crouched,  began  to  run  parallel 
with  the  horse,  and  leaped  at  exactly  the  right  instant. 
His  hand  caught  the  sleeve  of  his  rescuer  at  the  same 
time  that  the  flat  of  his  foot  dropped  upon  the  white  man's 
boot.  A  moment,  and  his  leg  had  swung  across  the 
rump  of  the  pony  and  he  had  settled  to  the  animal's  back. 

So  close  was  it  that  a  running  Cree  snatched  at  the 
bronco's  tail  and  was  jerked  from  his  feet  before  he 
could  release  his  hold. 

As  the  cow-pony  went  plunging  up  the  slope,  Morse 
saw  Brad  Stearns  silhouetted  against  the  sky-line  at 
the  summit.  His  hat  was  gone  and  his  bald  head  was 
shining  in  the  sun.  He  was  pumping  bullets  from  his 
rifle  at  the  Crees  surging  up  the  hill  after  his  companion. 

Stearns  swung  his  horse  and  jumped  it  to  a  lope. 
Side  by  side  with  Morse  he  went  over  the  brow  in  a 
shower  of  arrows  and  slugs. 

"Holy  mackerel,  boy!  What's  eatin'  you?"  he  yelled. 
"Ain't  you  got  any  sense  a-tall?  Don't  you  know  better 
'n  to  jump  up  trouble  thataway?" 

"We're  all  right  now,"  the  younger  man  said.  "They 
can't  catch  us."  j 

The  Crees  were  on  foot  and  would  be  out  of  range 
by  the  time  they  reached  the  hilltop. 

"Hmp!  They'll  come  to  our  camp  an'  raise  Cain. 
Why  not?  What  business  we  got  monkey  in'  with  their 
scalping  sociables?  It  ain't  neighborly." 


MORSE  JUMPS  UP  TROUBLE          43 

"West  won't  like  it,"  admitted  Morse. 

"He'll  throw  a  cat  fit.  What  do  you  aim  to  do  with 
yore  friend  Mighty-Nigh-Lose-His-Scalp?  If  I  know 
Bully  —  and  you  can  bet  a  silver  fox  fur  ag'in'  a  yard  o* 
tobacco  that  I  do  —  he  won't  give  no  glad  hand  to  him. 
Not  none." 

Morse  did  not  know  what  he  meant  to  do  with  him. 
He  had  let  an  impulse  carry  him  to  quixotic  action. 
Already  he  was  half-sorry  for  it,  but  he  was  obstinate 
enough  to  go  through  now  he  had  started. 

When  he  realized  the  situation,  Bully  West  exploded 
in  language  sulphurous.  He  announced  his  determina 
tion  to  turn  the  wounded  man  over  to  the  Crees  as  soon 
as  they  arrived. 

"No,"  said  Morse  quietly. 

"No  what?" 

"I  won't  stand  for  that.   They'd  murder  him." 

"That  any  o'  my  business  —  or  yours?" 

"I'm  makin'  it  mine." 

The  eyes  of  the  two  men  crossed,  as  rapiers  do,  feeling 
out  the  strength  back  of  them.  The  wounded  Indian,  tall 
and  slender,  stood  straight  as  an  arrow,  his  gaze  now 
on  one,  now  on  the  other.  His  face  was  immobile  and 
expressionless.  It  betrayed  no  sign  of  the  emotions  within. 

"Show  yore  cards,  Morse,"  said  West.  "What's 
yore  play?  I'm  goin'  to  tell  the  Crees  to  take  him  if 
they  want  him.  You'll  go  it  alone  if  you  go  to  foggin' 
with  a  six-shooter." 

The  young  man  turned  to  the  Indian  he  had  rescued. 
He  waved  a  hand  toward  the  horse  from  which  they  had 
just  dismounted.  "Up!"  he  ordered./ v 


44  MAN-SIZE 

^ 

The  Indian  youth  caught  the  point  instantly.  With 
out  using  the  stirrups  he  vaulted  to  the  saddle,  light  as 
a  mountain  lion.  His  bare  heels  dug  into  the  sides  of 
the  animal,  which  was  off  as  though  shot  out  of  a  gun. 

Horse  and  rider  skirted  the  cottonwoods  and  dis 
appeared  in  a  depression  beyond. 


CHAPTER  VI 
"SOMETHING  ABOUT  THESE  GUYS" 

WEST  glared  at  Morse,  his  heavy  chin  outthrust,  his 
bowed  legs  wide  apart.  "You've  done  run  on  the  rope 
long  enough  with  me,  young  feller.  Here's  where  you 
take  a  fall  hard." 

The  younger  man  said  nothing.  He  watched,  warily. 
Was  it  to  be  a  gun-play?  Or  did  the  big  bully  mean  to 
manhandle  him?  Probably  the  latter.  West  was  vain 
of  his  reputation  as  a  two-fisted  fighter. 

"I'm  gonna  beat  you  up,  then  turn  you  over  to  the 
Crees,"  the  infuriated  man  announced. 

"You  can't  do  that,  West.  He's  a  white  man  same 
as  you,"  protested  Stearns. 

"This  yore  put-in,  Brad?"  West,  beside  himself  with 
rage,  swung  on  the  little  man  and  straddled  forward  a 
step  or  two  threateningly. 

"You  done  said  it,"  answered  the  old-timer,  falling 
back.  "An'  don't  you  come  closter.  I'm  liable  to  get 
scared,  an'  you  'd  ought  not  to  forget  I  Jm  as  big  as  you 
behind  a  six-shooter." 

"Here  they  come  —  like  a  swarm  o'  bees!"  yelled 
Barney. 

The  traders  forgot,  for  the  moment,  their  quarrel 
in  the  need  of  common  action.  West  snatched  up  a 
rifle  and  dropped  a  bullet  in  front  of  the  nearest  Indian. 
The  warning  brought  the  Crees  up  short.  They  held  a 


46  MAN-SIZE 

long  consultation  and  one  of  them  came  forward  making 
the  peace  sign. 

In  pigeon  English  he  expressed  their  demands. 

"He's  gone  —  lit  right  out  —  stole  one  of  our  broncs. 
You  can  search  the  camp  if  you've  a  mind  to,"  West 
replied. 

The  envoy  reported.  There  was  another  long  pow 
wow. 

Brad,  chewing  tobacco  complacently  behind  a  wagon 
wheel,  commented  aloud.  "Can't  make  up  their  minds 
whether  to  come  on  an'  massacree  us  or  not.  They  got 
a  right  healthy  fear  of  our  guns.  Don't  blame  'em  a 
bit." 

Some  of  the  Crees  were  armed  with  bows  and  arrows, 
others  with  rifles.  But  the  trade  guns  sold  the  Indians 
of  the  Northern  tribes  were  of  the  poorest  quality.1 

The  whites,  to  the  contrary,  were  armed  with  the 
latest  repeating  Winchesters.  In  a  fight  with  them  the 
natives  were  at  a  terrible  disadvantage. 

The  Crees  realized  this.  A  delegation  of  two  came 
forward  to  search  the  camp.  West  pointed  out  the 
tracks  of  the  horse  upon  which  their  tribal  enemy  had 
ridden  away. 

They  grunted,  "Ugh!  Ugh!  Ugh!" 

Overbearing  though  he  was,  West  was  an  embryonic 
diplomat.  He  filled  a  water-bucket  with  whiskey  and 

1  These  flintlock  muskets  were  inaccurate.  They  would  not  carry  far. 
Their  owners  were  in  constant  danger  of  having  fingers  or  a  hand  blown  off 
in  explosions.  The  price  paid  for  these  cheap  firearms  was  based  on  the 
length  of  them.  The  butt  was  put  on  the  floor  and  the  gun  held  upright. 
Skins  laid  flat  were  piled  beside  it  till  they  reached  the  muzzle.  The  trader 
exchanged  the  rifle  for  the  furs.  (W.  M.  R.) 


SOMETHING  ABOUT  THESE  GUYS    47 

handed  it,  with  a  tin  cup,  to  the  wrinkled  old  brave 
nearest  him. 

"For  our  friends  the  Crees,"  he  said.  "Tell  your 
chief  my  young  man  did  n't  understand.  He  thought 
he  was  rescuing  a  Cree  from  the  Blackfeet." 

"Ugh!  Ugh!"  The  Indians  shuffled  away  with  their 
booty. 

There  was  more  talk,  but  the  guttural  protests  died 
away  before  the  temptation  of  the  liquor.  The  braves 
drank,  flung  a  few  shots  in  bravado  toward  the  wagons, 
and  presently  took  themselves  off. 

The  traders  did  not  renew  their  quarrel.  West's  rea 
sons  for  not  antagonizing  the  Morse  family  were  still  pow 
erful  as  ever.  He  subdued  his  desire  to  punish  the  young 
man  and  sullenly  gave  orders  to  hitch  up  the  teams. 

It  was  mid-afternoon  when  the  oxen  jogged  into 
Whoop-Up.  The  post  was  a  stockade  fort,  built  in  a 
square  about  two  hundred  yards  long,  of  cottonwood 
logs  dovetailed  together.  The  buildings  on  each  side  of 
the  plaza  faced  inward.  Loopholes  had  been  cut  in  the 
bastions  as  a  protection  against  Indians. 

In  the  big  stores  was  a  large  supply  of  blankets, 
beads,  provisions,  rifles,  and  clothing.  The  adjacent 
rooms  were  half-empty  now,  but  in  the  spring  they 
would  be  packed  to  the  eaves  with  thousands  of  buffalo 
robes  and  furs  brought  in  from  outlying  settlements 
by  hunters.  Later  these  would  be  hauled  to  Fort  Ben- 
ton  and  from  there  sent  down  the  Missouri  to  St.  Louis 
and  other  points. 

Morse,  looking  round,  missed  a  familiar  feature. 

"Where's  the  liquor?"  he  asked. 


48  MAN-SIZE 

"S-sh!"  warned  the  clerk  with  whom  he  was  talking. 
"Have  n't  you  heard?  There's  a  bunch  of  police  come 
into  the  country  from  Winnipeg.  The  lid's  on  tight." 
His  far  eye  drooped  to  the  cheek  in  a  wise  wink.  "If 
you've  brought  in  whiskey,  you'd  better  get  it  out  of 
the  fort  and  bury  it." 

"That  ?s  up  to  West.  I  would  n't  advise  any  police  to 
monkey  with  a  cargo  of  his." 

"You  don't  say."  The  clerk's  voice  was  heavy  with 
sarcasm.  "Well,  I'll  just  make  a  li'F  bet  with  you.  If 
the  North-West  Mounted  start  to  arrest  Bully  West  or 
to  empty  his  liquor-kegs,  they  '11  go  right  through  with 
the  job.  They're  go-getters,  these  red-coats  are." 

"Red-coats?  Not  soldiers,  are  they?" 

"Well,  they  are  and  they  ain't.  They're  drilled  an' 
in  companies.  But  they  can  arrest  any  one  they've 
a  mind  to,  and  their  officers  can  try  and  sentence  folks. 
They  don't  play  no  favorites  either.  Soon  as  they  hear 
of  this  mix-up  between  the  Crees  and  the  Blackfeet 
they'll  be  right  over  askin'  whyfors,  and  if  they  find 
who  gave  'em  the  booze  some  one  will  be  up  to  the  neck 
in  trouble  and  squawkin'  for  help." 

West  had  been  talking  in  whispers  with  Reddy  Mad 
den,  the  owner  of  the  place.  He  stepped  to  the  door. 

"Don't  onhook,  Brad.  We're  travelin'  some  more 
first,"  he  called  to  Stearns. 

The  oxen  plodded  out  of  the  stockade  and  swung  to 
the  left.  A  guide  rode  beside  West  and  Morse.  He  was 
Harvey  Gosse,  a  whiskey-runner  known  to  both  of  them. 
The  man  was  a  long,  loose-limbed  fellow  with  a  shrewd 
eye  and  the  full,  drooping  lower  lip  of  irresolution. 


SOMETHING  ABOUT  THESE  GUYS    49 

It  had  been  a  year  since  either  of  the  Fort  Benton 
men  had  been  in  the  country.  Gosse  told  them  of  the 
change  that  was  taking  place  in  it. 

"Business  ain't  what  it  was,  an'  that  ain't  but  half 
of  it,"  the  lank  rider  complained  regretfully.  "It  ain't 
ever  gonna  be  any  more.  These  here  red-coats  are 
plumb  ruinin'  trade.  Squint  at  a  buck  cross-eyed,  whis 
per  rum  to  him,  an'  one  o'  these  guys  jumps  a-straddle 
o'  yore  neck  right  away." 

"How  many  of  these  —  what  is  it  you  call  'em, 
Mounted  Police?  —  well,  how  many  of  'em  are  there  in 
the  country?"  asked  West. 

"Not  so  many.  I  reckon  a  hundred  or  so,  far  as  I've 
heard  tell." 

West  snorted  scornfully.  "And  you're  lettin'  this 
handful  of  tenderfeet  buffalo  you!  Hell's  hinges! 
Ain't  none  of  you  got  any  guts?" 

Gosse  dragged  slowly  a  brown  hand  across  an  un 
shaven  chin.  "  I  reckon  you  would  n 't  call 'em  tender- 
feet  if  you  met  up  with  'em,  Bully.  There's  something 
about  these  guys — I  dunno  what  it  is  exactly — but 
there's  sure  something  that  tells  a  fellow  not  to  prod 
'em  overly  much." 

"Quick  on  the  shoot?"  the  big  trader  wanted  to 
know. 

"No,  it  ain't  that.  They  don't  hardly  ever  draw  a 
gun.  They  jest  walk  in  kinda  quiet  an'  easy,  an'  tell 
you  it'll  be  thisaway  And  tha's  the  way  it  is  every 
crack  outa  the  box." 

"  Hmp ! "  West  exuded  boastful  incredulity.  "  I  reckon 
they  have  n't  bumped  into  any  one  man-size  yet." 


50  MAN-SIZE 

The  lank  whiskey-runner  guided  the  train,  by  wind 
ing  draws,  into  the  hills  back  of  the  post.  Above  a 
small  gulch,  at  the  head  of  it,  the  teams  were  stopped 
and  unloaded.  The  barrels  were  rolled  downhill  into 
the  underbrush  where  they  lay  cached  out  of  sight. 
From  here  they  would  be  distributed  as  needed. 

"  You  boys  '11  take  turn  an'  turn  about  watching  till 
I've  sold  the  cargo,"  West  announced.  "Arrange  that 
among  yoreselves.  Tom,  I  '11  let  you  fix  up  how  you  '11 
spell  each  other.  Only  thing  is,  one  of  you  has  to  be 
here  all  the  time,  y'  understand." 

Morse  took  the  first  watch  and  was  followed  by 
Stearns,  who  in  turn  gave  place  to  Barney.  The  days 
grew  to  a  week.  Sometimes  West  appeared  with  a  buyer 
in  a  cart  or  leading  a  pack-horse.  Then  the  cached 
fire-water  would  be  diminished  by  a  keg  or  two. 

It  was  a  lazy,  sleepy  life.  There  was  no  need  for  a 
close  guard.  Nobody  knew  where  the  whiskey  was 
except  themselves  and  a  few  tight-mouthed  traders. 
Morse  discovered  in  himself  an  inordinate  capacity 
for  sleep.  He  would  throw  himself  down  on  the  warm, 
sundried  grass  and  fall  into  a  doze  almost  instantly. 
When  the  rays  of  the  sun  grew  too  hot,  it  was  easy  to 
roll  over  into  the  shade  of  the  draw.  He  could  lie  for 
hours  on  his  back  after  he  wakened  and  watch  cloud- 
skeins  elongate  and  float  away,  thinking  of  nothing  or 
letting  thoughts  happen  in  sheer  idle  content. 

He  had  never  had  a  girl,  to  use  the  word  current 
among  his  fellows.  His  scheme  of  life  would,  he  sup 
posed,  include  women  by  and  by,  but  hitherto  he  had 
dwelt  in  a  man's  world,  in  a  universe  of  space  and  sun- 


SOMETHING  ABOUT  THESE  GUYS    51 

shine  and  blowing  wind,  under  primitive  conditions 
that  made  for  tough  muscles  and  a  clean  mind  trained 
to  meet  frontier  emergencies.  But  now,  to  his  disgust, 
he  found  slipping  into  his  reveries  pictures  of  a  slim, 
dark  girl,  arrow-straight,  with  eyes  that  held  for  him 
only  scorn  and  loathing.  The  odd  thing  about  it  was 
that  when  his  brain  was  busy  with  her  a  strange  exultant 
excitement  tingled  through  his  veins. 

One  day  a  queer  thing  happened.  He  had  never  heard 
of  psychic  phenomena  or  telepathy,  but  he  opened  his 
eyes  from  a  day-dream  of  her  to  see  Jessie  McRae  look 
ing  down  at  him. 

She  was  on  an  Indian  cayuse,  round-bellied  and 
rough.  Very  erect  she  sat,  and  on  her  face  was  the 
exact  expression  of  scornful  hatred  he  had  seen  in  his 
vision  of  her. 

He  jumped  to  his  feet.   "You  —  here!" 

A  hot  color  flooded  her  face  with  anger  to  the  roots 
of  the  hair.  Without  a  word,  without  another  glance  at 
him,  she  laid  the  bridle  rein  to  the  pony's  neck  and 
swung  away. 

Unprotesting,  he  let  her  go.  The  situation  had 
jumped  at  him  too  unexpectedly  for  him  to  know  how  to 
meet  it.  He  stood,  motionless,  the  red  light  in  his  eyes 
burning  like  distant  camp-fires  in  the  night.  For  the 
first  time  in  his  life  he  had  been  given  the  cut  direct  by 
a  woman. 

Yet  she  was  n  't  a  woman  after  all.  She  was  a  maid, 
with  that  passionate  sense  of  tragedy  which  comes  only 
to  the  very  young. 

It  was  in  his  mind  to  slap  a  saddle  on  his  bronco  and 


52  MAN-SIZE 

ride  after  her.  But  why?  Could  he  by  sheer  dominance 
of  will  change  her  opinion  of  him?  She  had  grounded  it 
on  good  and  sufficient  reasons.  He  was  associated  in 
her  mind  with  the  greatest  humiliation  of  her  life,  with 
the  stinging  lash  that  had  cut  into  her  young  pride  and 
her  buoyant  courage  as  cruelly  as  it  had  into  her  smooth, 
satiny  flesh.  Was  it  likely  she  would  listen  to  any  re 
grets,  any  explanations?  Her  hatred  of  him  was  not  a 
matter  for  argument.  It  was  burnt  into  her  soul  as 
with  a  red-hot  brand.  He  could  not  talk  away  what  he 
had  done  or  the  thing  that  he  was. 

She  had  come  upon  him  by  chance  while  he  was 
asleep.  He  guessed  that  Angus  McRae's  party  had 
reached  Whoop-Up  and  had  stopped  to  buy  supplies 
and  perhaps  to  sell  hides  and  pemmican.  The  girl  had 
probably  ridden  out  from  the  stockade  to  the  open  prai 
rie  because  she  loved  to  ride.  The  rest  needed  no  con 
jecture.  In  that  lone  land  of  vast  spaces  travelers 
always  exchanged  greetings.  She  had  discovered  him  ly 
ing  in  the  grass.  He  might  be  sick  or  wounded  or  dead. 
The  custom  of  the  country  would  bring  her  straight 
across  the  swales  toward  him  to  find  out  whether  he 
needed  help. 

Then  she  had  seen  who  he  was  —  and  had  ridden 
away. 

A  sardonic  smile  of  self-mockery  stamped  for  a 
moment  on  his  brown  boyish  face  the  weariness  of  the 
years. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  MAN  IN  THE  SCARLET  JACKET 

MORSE  ambled  out  at  a  road  gait  to  take  his  turn  at 
guard  duty.  He  was  following  the  principle  that  the 
longest  way  round  is  the  shortest  road  to  a  given  place. 
The  reason  for  this  was  to  ward  off  any  suspicion  that 
might  have  arisen  if  the  watchers  had  always  come  and 
gone  by  the  same  trail.  Therefore  they  started  for  any 
point  of  the  compass,  swung  round  in  a  wide  detour, 
and  in  course  of  time  arrived  at  the  cache. 

There  was  n't  any  hurry  anyhow.  Each  day  had 
twenty -four  hours,  and  a  fellow  lived  just  as  long  if  he 
did  n't  break  his  neck  galloping  along  with  his  tail  up 
like  a  hill  steer  on  a  stampede. 

To-day  Morse  dropped  in  toward  the  cache  from  due 
west.  His  eyes  were  open,  even  if  the  warmth  of  the 
midday  sun  did  make  him  sleepy.  Something  he  saw 
made  him  slip  from  the  saddle,  lead  his  horse  into  a 
draw,  and  move  forward  very  carefully  through  the 
bunch  grass. 

What  he  had  seen  was  a  man  crouched  behind  some 
brush,  looking  down  into  the  little  gorge  where  the 
whiskey  cache  was  —  a  man  in  leather  boots,  tight 
riding-breeches,  scarlet  jacket,  and  jaunty  forage  cap. 
It  needed  no  second  glance  to  tell  Tom  Morse  that  the 
police  had  run  down  the  place  where  they  had  hidden 
their  cargo. 


54  MAN-SIZE 

From  out  of  the  little  canon  a  man  appeared.  He 
was  carrying  a  keg  of  whiskey.  The  man  was  Barney. 
West  had  no  doubt  sent  word  to  him  that  he  would 
shortly  bring  a  buyer  with  him  to  the  rendezvous. 

The  man  in  the  scarlet  jacket  rose  and  stepped  out 
into  the  open.  He  was  a  few  feet  from  Barney.  In  his 
belt  there  was  a  revolver,  but  he  did  not  draw  it. 

Barney  stopped  and  stared  at  him,  his  mouth  open, 
eyes  bulging.  "Where  in  Heligoland  you  come  from?" 
he  asked. 

"From  Sarnia,  Ontario,"  the  red-coat  answered. 
"Glad  to  meet  you,  friend.  I've  been  looking  for  you 
several  days." 

"For  me!"  said  Barney  blankly. 

"For  you  —  and  for  that  keg  of  forty-rod  you're 
carrying.  No,  don't  drop  it.  We  can  talk  more  com 
fortably  while  both  your  hands  are  busy."  The  con 
stable  stepped  forward  and  picked  from  the  ground  a 
rifle.  "I've  been  lying  in  the  brush  two  hours  waiting 
for  you  to  get  separated  from  this.  Did  n't  want  you 
making  any  mistakes  in  your  excitement." 

"Mistakes!"  repeated  Barney. 

"Yes.  You're  under  arrest,  you  know,  for  whiskey- 
smuggling." 

"You're  one  of  these  here  border  police."  Barney 
used  the  rising  inflection  in  making  his  statement. 

"Constable  Winthrop  Beresford,  North-West 
Mounted,  at  your  service,"  replied  the  officer  jauntily. 
He  was  a  trim,  well-set-up  youth,  quick  of  step  and 
crisp  of  speech. 

"What  you  gonna  do  with  me?" 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  SCARLET  JACKET    55 

"Take  you  to  Fort  Macleod." 

It  was  perhaps  because  his  eyes  were  set  at  not  quite 
the  right  angles  and  because  they  were  so  small  and 
wolfish  that  Barney  usually  aroused  distrust.  He  sug 
gested  now,  with  an  ingratiating  whine  in  his  voice, 
that  he  would  like  to  see  a  man  at  Whoop-Up  first. 

"  Jes'  a  liT  matter  of  business,"  he  added  by  way  of 
explanation. 

The  constable  guessed  at  his  business.  The  man 
wanted  to  let  his  boss  know  what  had  taken  place  and 
to  give  him  a  chance  to  rescue  him  if  he  would.  Beres- 
ford's  duty  was  to  find  out  who  was  back  of  this  liquor 
running.  It  would  be  worth  while  knowing  what  man 
Barney  wanted  to  talk  with.  He  could  afford  to  take  a 
chance  on  the  rescue. 

"Righto,"  he  agreed.  "You  may  put  that  barrel 
down  now." 

Barney  laid  it  down,  end  up.  With  one  sharp  drive 
of  the  rifle  butt  the  officer  broke  in  the  top  of  the  keg. 
He  kicked  the  barrel  over  with  his  foot. 

This  was  the  moment  Morse  chose  for  putting  in  an 
appearance. 

"Hello!  What's  doin'?"  he  asked  casually. 

Beresford,  cool  and  quiet,  looked  straight  at  him. 
"I'll  ask  you  that." 

"Kinda  expensive  to  irrigate  the  prairie  that  way, 
ain't  it?" 

"Does  n't  cost  me  anything.   How  about  you?" 

Morse  laughed  at  the  question  fired  back  at  him  so> 
promptly.  This  young  man  was  very  much  on  the  job. 
"Not  a  bean,"  the  Montanan  said. 


56  MAN-SIZE 

"  Good.  Then  you  '11  enjoy  the  little  show  I  'm  putting 
on  —  five  thousand  dollars'  worth  of  liquor  spilt  all  at 
one  time." 

"Holy  Moses!  Where  is  this  blind  tiger  you're 
raidin'?" 

"Down  in  the  gully.  Lucky  you  happened  along 
just  by  chance.  You  '11  be  able  to  carry  the  good  news  to 
Whoop-Up  and  adjacent  points." 

"You're  not  really  aimin'  to  spill  all  that  whiskey." 

"That's  my  intention.  Any  objections?"  The 
scarlet-coated  officer  spoke  softly,  without  any  edge  to 
his  voice.  But  Tom  began  to  understand  why  the  clerk 
at  the  trading-post  had  called  the  Mounted  Police 
go-getters.  This  smooth-shaven  lad,  so  easy  and  care 
free  of  manner,  had  a  gleam  in  his  eye  that  meant  busi 
ness.  His  very  gentleness  was  ominous. 

Tom  Morse  reflected  swiftly.  His  uncle's  firm  had 
taken  a  chance  of  this  very  finale  when  it  had  sent  a 
convoy  of  liquor  into  forbidden  territory.  Better  to 
lose  the  stock  than  to  be  barred  by  the  Canadian  Gov 
ernment  from  trading  with  the  Indians  at  all.  This 
officer  was  not  one  to  be  bribed  or  bullied.  He  would 
go  through  with  the  thing  he  had  started. 

"Why,  no!  How  could  I  have  any  objections?" 
Morse  said. 

He  shot  a  swift,  slant  look  at  Barney,  a  look  that  told 
the  Irishman  to  say  nothing  and  know  nothing,  and 
that  he  would  be  protected  against  the  law. 

"Glad  you  haven't,"  Constable  Beresford  replied 
cheerfully  —  so  very  cheerfully  in  fact  that  Morse 
suspected  he  would  not  have  been  much  daunted  if 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  SCARLET  JACKET    57 

objections  had  been  mentioned.  "Perhaps  you'll  help 
me  with  my  little  job,  then." 

The  trader  grinned.  He  might  as  well  go  the  limit 
with  the  bluff  he  was  playing.  "Sure.  I'll  help  you  make 
a  fourth  o'  July  outa  the  kegs.  Lead  me  to  'em." 

"You  don't  know  where  they  are,  of  course?" 

"In  the  gully,  you  said,"  Morse  replied  innocently. 

"So  I  did.  Righto.  Down  you  go,  then."  The  con 
stable  turned  to  Barney.  "You  next,  friend." 

A  well-defined  trail  led  down  the  steep  side  of  the 
gulch.  It  ended  in  a  thick  growth  of  willow  saplings. 
Underneath  the  roof  of  this  foliage  were  more  than  a 
score  of  whiskey-casks. 

After  ten  minutes  with  the  rifle  butt  there  was  noth 
ing  to  show  for  the  cache  but  broken  barrels  and  a 
trough  of  wet  sand  where  the  liquor  had  run  down  the 
bed  of  the  dry  gully. 

It  was  time,  Morse  thought,  to  play  his  own  small 
part  in  the  entertainment. 

"After  you,  gentlemen,"  Beresford  said,  stepping 
aside  to  let  them  take  the  trail  up. 

Morse  too  moved  back  to  let  Barney  pass.  The  eyes 
of  the  two  men  met  for  a  fraction  of  a  second.  Tom's 
lips  framed  silently  one  word.  In  that  time  a  message 
was  given  and  received. 

The  young  man  followed  Barney,  the  constable  at 
his  heels.  Morse  stumbled,  slipped  to  all  fours,  and 
slid  back.  He  flung  out  his  arms  to  steady  himself  and 
careened  back  against  the  constable.  His  flying  hands 
caught  at  the  scarlet  coat.  His  bent  head  and  shoul 
ders  thrust  Beresford  back  and  down. 


58  MAN-SIZE 

Barney  started  to  run. 

The  officer  struggled  to  hold  his  footing  against  the 
awkward  incubus,  to  throw  the  man  off  so  that  he  could 
pursue  Barney.  His  efforts  were  vain.  Morse,  evidently 
trying  to  regain  his  equilibrium,  plunged  wildly  at  him 
and  sent  him  ploughing  into  the  willows.  The  Mon- 
tanan  landed  heavily  on  top,  pinned  him  down,  and 
smothered  him. 

The  scarlet  coat  was  a  center  of  barrel  hoops,  bushes, 
staves,  and  wildly  jerking  arms  and  legs. 

Morse  made  heroic  efforts  to  untangle  himself  from  the 
clutter.  Once  or  twice  he  extricated  himself  almost, 
only  to  lose  his  balance  on  the  slippery  bushes  and  come 
skating  down  again  on  the  officer  just  as  he  was  trying 
to  rise. 

It  was  a  scene  for  a  moving-picture  comedy,  if  the 
screen  had  been  a  feature  of  that  day. 

When  at  last  the  two  men  emerged  from  the  gulch, 
Barney  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  With  him  had  vanished 
the  mount  of  Beresford. 

The  constable  laughed  nonchalantly.  He  had  just 
lost  a  prisoner,  which  was  against  the  unwritten  law  of 
the  Force,  but  he  had  gained  another  in  his  place.  It 
would  not  be  long  till  he  had  Barney  too. 

"Pretty  work,"  he  said  appreciatively.  "You 
could  n't  have  done  it  better  if  you  'd  done  it  on  purpose, 
could  you?" 

"Done  what?"  asked  Morse,  with  bland  naivete. 

"Made  a  pillow  and  a  bed  of  me,  skated  on  me. 
bowled  me  over  like  a  tenpin." 

"I  ce'tainly  was  awkward.    Could  n't  get  my  footin* 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  SCARLET  JACKET    59 

at  all,  seemed  like.  Why,  where 's  Barney?"  Appar 
ently  the  trader  had  just  made  a  discovery. 

"Ask  of  the  winds,  'Oh,  where?'"  Beresford  dusted 
off  his  coat,  his  trousers,  and  his  cap.  When  he  had 
removed  the  evidence  of  the  battle  of  the  gulch,  he  set 
his  cap  at  the  proper  angle  and  cocked  an  inquiring 
eye  at  the  other.  "I  suppose  you  know  you're  under 
arrest." 

"Why,  no!  Ami?  What  for?  Which  of  the  statues, 
laws,  and  ordinances  of  Queen  Vic  have  I  been  bustin' 
without  knowin'  of  them?" 

"For  aiding  and  abetting  the  escape  of  a  prisoner." 

"Did  I  do  all  that?  And  when  did  I  do  it?" 

"While  you  were  doing  that  war-dance  on  what  was 
left  of  my  manhandled  geography." 

"Can  you  arrest  a  fellow  for  slippin'?" 

"Depends  on  how  badly  he  slips.  I 'm  going  to  take  a 
chance  on  arresting  you,  anyhow." 

"Gonna  take  away  my  six-shooter  and  handcuff 
me?" 

"I'll  take  your  revolver.  If  necessary,  I'll  put  on 
the  cuffs." 

Morse  looked  at  him,  not  without  admiration.  The 
man  in  the  scarlet  jacket  wasted  nothing.  There  was 
about  him  no  superfluity  of  build,  of  gesture,  of  voice. 
Beneath  the  close-fitting  uniform  the  muscles  rippled 
and  played  when  he  moved.  His  shoulders  and  arms 
were  those  of  a  college  oarsman.  Lean -flanked  and 
clean-limbed,  he  was  in  the  hey-day  of  a  splendid  youth. 
It  showed  in  the  steady  eyes  set  wide  in  the  tanned  face, 
in  the  carriage  of  the  close-cropped,  curly  head,  in  the 


60  MAN-SIZE 

spring  of  the  step.  The  Montanan  recognizer1  in  him  a 
kinship  of  dynamic  force. 

"Just  what  would  I  be  doing? "the  whiskey-runner 
asked,  smiling. 

Beresford  met  his  smile.  "I  fancy  I'll  find  that  out 
pretty  soon.  Your  revolver,  please."  He  held  out  his 
hand,  palm  up. 

"Let's  get  this  straight.  We're  man  to  man.  What '11 
you  do  if  I  find  I  've  got  no  time  to  go  to  Fort  Macleod 
with  you?" 

"Take  you  with  me." 

"Dead  or  alive?" 

"No,  alive." 

"And  if  I  won't  go?"  asked  Morse. 

"Oh,  you'll  go."  The  officer's  bearing  radiated  a 
quiet,  imperturbable  confidence.  His  hand  was  still 
extended,  "//you  please." 

"No  hurry.  Do  you  know  what  you're  up  against? 
When  I  draw  this  gun  I  can  put  a  bullet  through  your 
head  and  ride  away?" 

"Yes." 

"Unless,  of  course,  you  plug  me  first." 

"  Can't  do  that.   Against  the  regulations." 

"Much  obliged  for  that  information.  You've  got 
only  a  dead  man's  chance  then  —  if  I  show  fight." 

"Better  not.  Game  hardly  worth  the  candle.  My  pals 
would  run  you  down,"  the  constable  advised  coolly. 

"You  still  intend  to  arrest  me?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

As  Morse  looked  at  him,  patient  as  an  animal  of 
prey,  steady,  fearless,  an  undramatic  Anglo-Saxon  who 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  SCARLET  JACKET    61 

meant  to  go  through  with  the  day's  work,  he  began  to 
understand  the  power  that  was  to  make  the  North -West 
Mounted  Police  such  a  force  in  the  land.  The  only  way 
he  could  prevent  this  man  from  arresting  him  was  to 
kill  the  constable;  and  if  he  killed  him,  other  jaunty 
red-coated  youths  would  come  to  kill  or  be  killed.  It 
came  to  him  that  he  was  up  against  a  new  order  which 
would  wipe  Bully  West  and  his  kind  from  the  land. 

He  handed  his  revolver  to  Beresford.  "I'll  ride  with 
you." 

"Good.  Have  to  borrow  your  horse  till  we  reach 
Whoop-Up.  You  won't  mind  walking?" 

"Not  at  all.  Some  folks  think  that's  what  legs  were 
made  for,"  answered  Morse,  grinning. 

As  he  strode  across  the  prairie  beside  the  horse,  Morse 
was  still  puzzling  over  the  situation.  He  perceived  that 
the  strength  of  the  officer's  position  was  wholly  a  moral 
one.  A  lawbreaker  was  confronted  with  an  ugly  alter 
native.  The  only  way  to  escape  arrest  was  to  commit 
murder.  Most  men  would  not  go  that  far,  and  of  those 
who  would  the  great  majority  would  be  deterred  be 
cause  eventually  punishment  was  sure.  The  slightest 
hesitation,  the  least  apparent  doubt,  a  flicker  of  fear 
on  the  officer's  face,  would  be  fatal  to  success.  He  won 
because  he  serenely  expected  to  win,  and  because  there 
was  back  of  him  a  silent,  impalpable  force  as  irresistible 
as  the  movement  of  a  glacier. 

Beresford  must  have  known  that  the  men  who  lived 
at  Whoop-Up  were  unfriendly  to  the  North-\Vest 
Mounted.  Some  of  them  had  been  put  out  of  business. 
Their  property  had  been  destroyed  and  confiscated. 


&2  MAN-SIZE 

Fines  had  been  imposed  on  them.  The  current  whisper 
was  that  the  whiskey-smugglers  would  retaliate  against 
the  constables  in  person  whenever  there  was  a  chance 
to  do  so  with  impunity.  Some  day  a  debonair  wearer 
of  the  scarlet  coat  would  ride  out  gayly  from  one  of  the 
forts  and  a  riderless  horse  would  return  at  dusk.  There 
were  outlaws  who  would  ask  nothing  better  than  a 
chance  to  dry-gulch  one  of  these  inquisitive  riders  of 
the  plains. 

But  Beresford  rode  into  the  stockade  and  swung  from 
the  saddle  with  smiling  confidence.  He  nodded  here 
and  there  casually  to  dark,  sullen  men  who  watched  his 
movements  with  implacably  hostile  eyes. 

His  words  were  addressed  to  Reddy  Madden.  "Can 
you  let  me  have  a  horse  for  a  few  days  and  charge  it  to 
the  Force?  I've  lost  mine." 

Some  one  sniggered  offensively.  Barney  had  evi 
dently  reached  Whoop-Up  and  was  in  hiding. 

"Your  horse  came  in  a  while  ago,  constable,"  Madden 
said  civilly.  "It's  in  the  corral  back  of  the  store." 

"Did  it  come  in  without  a  rider?"  Beresford  asked. 

The  question  was  unnecessary.  The  horse  would  have 
gone  to  Fort  Macleod  and  not  have  come  to  Whoop-Up 
unless  a  rider  had  guided  it  here.  But  sometimes  one 
found  out  things  from  unwilling  witnesses  if  one  asked 
questions. 

"Did  n't  notice.  I  was  in  the  store  myself." 

"Thought  perhaps  you  hadn't  noticed,"  the  officer 
said.  "None  of  you  other  gentlemen  noticed  either,  did 
you?" 

The  "other  gentlemen"  held  a  dogged,  sulky  silence. 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  SCARLET  JACKET    63 

A  girl  cantered  through  the  gate  of  the  stockade  and 
up  to  the  store.  At  sight  of  Morse  her  eyes  passed 
swiftly  to  Beresford.  His  answered  smilingly  what  she 
had  asked.  It  was  all  over  in  a  flash,  but  it  told  the  man 
from  Montana  who  the  informer  was  that  had  betrayed 
to  the  police  the  place  of  the  whiskey  cache. 

To  the  best  of  her  limited  chance,  Jessie  McRae  was 
paying  an  installment  on  the  debt  she  owed  Bully  West 
and  Tom  Morse. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
AT  SWEET  WATER  CREEK 

BEFORE  a  fire  of  buffalo  chips  Constable  Beresford  and 
his  prisoner  smoked  the  pipe  of  peace.  Morse  sat  on  his 
heels,  legs  crossed,  after  the  manner  of  the  camper.  The 
officer  lounged  at  full  length,  an  elbow  dug  into  the  sand 
as  a  support  for  his  head.  The  Montanan  was  on  parole, 
so  that  for  the  moment  at  least  their  relations  were 
forgotten. 

"After  the  buffalo  —  what?"  asked  the  American. 
"The  end  of  the  Indian  —  is  that  what  it  means?  And 
desolation  on  the  plains.  Nobody  left  but  the  Hudson's 
Bay  Company  trappers,  d'  you  reckon?" 

The  Canadian  answered  in  one  word.   "Cattle." 

"Some,  maybe,"  Morse  assented.  "But,  holy  Moses, 
think  of  the  millions  it  would  take  to  stock  this 
country." 

"Bet  you  the  country's  stocked  inside  of  five  years  of 
the  time  the  buffalo  are  cleared  out.  Look  at  what  the 
big  Texas  drives  are  doing  in  Colorado  and  Wyoming 
and  Montana.  Get  over  the  idea  that  this  land  up  here 
is  a  desert.  That 's  a  fool  notion  our  school  geographies 
are  responsible  for.  Great  American  Desert?  Great 
American  fiddlesticks !  It 's  a  man's  country,  if  you  like; 
but  I've  yet  to  see  the  beat  of  it." 

Morse  had  ceased  to  pay  attention.  His  head  was 
tilted,  and  he  was  listening. 


AT  SWEET  WATER  CREEK     65 

"Some  one  ridin'  this  way,"  he  said  presently.  "Hear 
the  hoofs  click  on  the  shale.  Who  is  it?  I  wonder.  An' 
what  do  they  want?  When  folks'  intentions  has  n't 
been  declared  it 's  a  good  notion  to  hold  a  hand  you  can 


raise  on." 


Without  haste  and  without  delay  Beresford  got  to  his 
feet.  "We '11  step  back  into  the  shadow,"  he  announced. 

"Looks  reasonable  to  me,"  agreed  the  smuggler. 

They  waited  in  the  semi-darkness  back  of  the  camp- 
fire. 

Some  one  shouted.  "Hello,  the  camp!"  At  the  sound 
of  that  clear,  bell-like  voice  Morse  lifted  his  head  to 
listen  better. 

The  constable  answered  the  call. 

Two  riders  came  into  the  light.  One  was  a  girl,  the 
other  a  slim,  straight  young  Indian  in  deerskin  shirt  and 
trousers.  The  girl  swung  from  the  saddle  and  came  for 
ward  to  the  camp-fire.  The  companion  of  her  ride 
shadowed  her. 

Beresford  and  his  prisoner  advanced  from  the  darkness. 

"Bully  West's  after  you.  He's  sworn  to  kill  you,"  the 
girl  called  to  the  constable. 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"Onistah  heard  him."  She  indicated  with  a  wave  of 
her  hand  the  lithe-limbed  youth  beside  her.  "Onistah 
was  passing  the  stable  —  behind  it,  back  of  the  corral. 
This  West  was  gathering  a  mob  to  follow  you  —  said 
he  was  going  to  hang  you  for  destroying  his  whiskey." 

"He  is,  eh?"  Beresford's  salient  jaw  set.  His  light 
blue  eyes  gleamed  hard  and  chill.  He  would  see  about 
that. 


66  MAN-SIZE 

"They'll  be  here  soon.  This  West  was  sure  you'd 
camp  here  at  Sweet  Water  Creek,  close  to  the  ford." 
A  note  of  excitement  pulsed  in  the  girl's  voice.  "We 
heard  'em  once  behind  us  on  the  road.  You'd  better 
hurry." 

The  constable  swung  toward  the  Montanan.  His 
eyes  bored  into  those  of  the  prisoner.  Would  this  man 
keep  his  parole  or  not?  He  would  find  out  pretty  soon. 

"Saddle  up,  Morse.  I'll  pack  my  kit.  We'll  hit  the 
trail." 

"Listen."  Jessie  stood  a  moment,  head  lifted. 
"What's  that?" 

Onistah  moved  a  step  forward,  so  that  for  a  moment 
the  firelight  flickered  over  the  copper-colored  face. 
Tom  Morse  made  a  discovery.  This  man  was  the  Black- 
foot  he  had  rescued  from  the  Crees. 

"Horses,"  the  Indian  said,  and  held  up  the  fingers  of 
both  hands  to  indicate  the  numbers.  "  Coming  up  creek. 
Here  soon." 

"We'll  move  back  to  the  big  rocks  and  I'll  make  a 
stand  there,"  the  officer  told  the  whiskey-runner.  "Slap 
the  saddles  on  without  cinching.  We've  got  no  time  to 
lose."  His  voice  lost  its  curtness  as  he  turned  to  the 
girl.  "Miss  McRae,  I'll  not  forget  this.  Very  likely 
you  've  saved  my  life.  Now  you  and  Onistah  had  better 
slip  away  quietly.  You  must  n't  be  seen  here." 

"Why  must  n't  I?"  she  asked  quickly.  "I  don't  care 
who  sees  me." 

She  looked  at  Morse  as  she  spoke,  head  up,  with  that 
little  touch  of  scornful  defiance  in  the  quivering  nostrils 
that  seemed  to  express  a  spirit  free  and  unafraid.  The 


AT  SWEET  WATER  CREEK     67 

sense  of  superiority  is  generally  not  a  lovely  manifesta 
tion  in  any  human  being,  but  there  are  moments  when  it 
tells  of  something  fine,  a  disdain  of  actions  low  and  mean. 

Morse  strode  away  to  the  place  where  the  horses  were 
picketed.  He  could  hear  voices  farther  down  the  creek, 
caught  once  a  snatch  of  words. 

"...  must  be  somewheres  near,  I  tell  you." 

Noiselessly  he  slipped  on  the  saddles,  pulled  the 
picket-pins,  and  moved  toward  the  big  rocks. 

The  place  was  a  landmark.  The  erosion  of  the  ages 
had  played  strange  tricks  with  the  sandstone.  The 
rocks  rose  like  huge  red  toadstools  or  like  prehistoric 
animals  of  vast  size.  One  of  them  was  known  as  the 
Three  Bears,  another  as  the  Elephant. 

Among  these  boulders  Morse  found  the  party  he  had 
just  left.  The  officer  was  still  trying  to  persuade  Jessie 
McRae  to  attempt  escape.  She  refused,  stubbornly. 

"There  are  three  of  us  here.  Onistah  is  a  good  shot. 
So  am  I.  For  that  matter,  if  anybody  is  going  to  escape, 
it  had  better  be  you,"  she  said. 

"Too  late  now,"  Morse  said.  "See,  they've  found 
the  camp-fire." 

Nine  or  ten  riders  had  come  out  of  the  darkness  and 
were  approaching  the  camping-ground.  West  was  in 
the  lead.  Morse  recognized  Barney  and  Brad  Stearns. 
Two  of  the  others  were  half-breeds,  one  an  Indian  trailer 
of  the  Piegan  tribe. 

"He  must  'a'  heard  us  comin'  and  pulled  out," 
Barney  said. 

"Then  he's  back  in  the  red  rocks,"  boomed  West 
triumphantly. 


68  MAN-SIZE 

"Soon  find  out."  Brad  Stearns  turned  the  head  of  his 
horse  toward  the  rocks  and  shouted.  "Hello,  Tom! 
You  there?" 

No  answer  came  from  the  rocks. 

"Don't  prove  a  thing,"  West  broke  out  impatiently. 
"This  fellow 's  got  Tom  buffaloed.  Did  n't  he  make  him 
smash  the  barrels?  Did  n't  he  take  away  his  six-gun 
from  him  and  bring  him  along  like  he  had  n't  any  mind 
of  his  own?  Tom's  yellow.  Got  a  streak  a  foot  wide." 

"Nothin'  of  the  kind,"  denied  Stearns,  indignation  in 
his  voice.  "I  done  brought  up  that  boy  by  hand  — 
learned  him  all  he  knows  about  ridin'  and  ropin'. 
He'll  do  to  take  along." 

"Hmp!  He  always  fooled  you,  Brad.  Different  here. 
I'm  aimin'  to  give  him  the  wallopin'  of  his  life  when 
I  meet  up  with  him.  And  that'll  be  soon,  if  he's  up 
there  in  the  rocks.  I'm  goin'  a-shootin'."  Bully  West 
drew  his  revolver  and  rode  forward. 

The  constable  had  disposed  of  his  forces  so  that 
behind  the  cover  of  the  sandstone  boulders  they  com 
manded  the  approach.  He  had  tried  to  persuade  Jessie 
that  this  was  not  her  fight,  but  a  question  from  her  had 
silenced  him. 

"If  that  Bully  West  finds  me  here,  after  he's  killed 
you,  d'  you  think  I  can  get  him  to  let  me  go  because  it 
was  n't  my  fight?" 

She  had  asked  it  with  flashing  eyes,  in  which  for  an 
instant  he  had  seen  the  savagery  of  fear  leap  out. 
Beresford  was  troubled.  The  girl  was  right  enough. 
If  West  went  the  length  of  murder,  he  would  be  an 
outlaw.  Sleeping  Dawn  would  not  be  safe  with  him 


AT  SWEET  WATER  CREEK     69 

after  she  had  ridden  out  to  warn  his  enemy  that  he  was 
coming.  The  fellow  was  a  primeval  brute.  His  reputation 
had  run  over  the  whole  border  country  of  Rupert's  Land. 

Now  he  appealed  to  Morse.  "If  they  get  me,  will 
you  try  to  save  Miss  McRae?  This  fellow  West  is  a 
devil,  I  hear." 

The  officer  caught  a  gleam  of  hot  red  eyes.  "I'll 
'tend  to  that.  We'll  mix  first,  him  'n'  me.  Question  now 
is,  do  I  get  a  gun?" 

"What  for?" 

"Didn't  you  hear  him  make  his  brags  about  what 
he  was  gonna  do  to  me?  If  there's  shootin'  I'm  in  on 
it,  ain't  I?" 

"No.  You  're  a  prisoner.  I  can't  arm  you  unless  your 
life  is  in  danger." 

West  pulled  up  his  horse  about  sixty  yards  from  the 
rocks.  He  shouted  a  profane  order.  The  purport  of  it 
was  that  Beresford  had  better  come  out  with  his  hands 
up  if  he  did  n't  want  to  be  dragged  out  by  a  rope  around 
his  neck.  The  man's  speech  crackled  with  oaths  and 
obscenity. 

The  constable  stepped  into  the  open  a  few  yards. 
"What  do  you  want?  "  he  asked. 

"You."  The  whiskey-runner  screamed  it  in  a  sudden 
gust  of  passion.  "Think  you  can  make  a  fool  of  Bully 
West?  Think  you  can  bust  up  our  cargo  an'  get  away 
with  it?  I'll  show  you  where  you  head  in  at." 

"Don't  make  any  mistake,  West,"  advised  the  officer, 
his  voice  cold  as  the  splash  of  ice- water.  "Three  of  us 
are  here,  all  with  rifles,  all  dead  shots.  If  you  attack  us, 
some  of  you  are  going  to  get  killed." 


70  MAN-SIZE 

"Tha's  a  lie.  You're  alone  —  except  for  Tom  Morse, 
an'  he  ain't  fool  enough  to  fight  to  go  to  jail.  I've  got 
you  where  I  want  you."  West  swung  from  the  saddle 
and  came  straddling  forward.  In  the  uncertain  light 
he  looked  more  like  some  misbegotten  ogre  than  a  hu 
man  being. 

"That's  far  enough,"  warned  Beresford,  not  a  trace 
of  excitement  in  manner  or  speech.  His  hands  hung  by 
his  sides.  He  gave  no  sign  of  knowing  that  he  had  a 
revolver  strapped  to  his  hip  ready  for  action. 

The  liquor  smuggler  stopped  to  pour  out  abuse.  He 
was  working  himself  up  to  a  passion  that  would  justify 
murder.  The  weapon  in  his  hand  swept  wildly  back  and 
forth.  Presently  it  would  focus  down  to  a  deadly  con 
centration  in  which  all  motion  would  cease. 

The  torrent  of  vilification  died  on  the  man's  lips. 
He  stared  past  the  constable  with  bulging  eyes.  From 
the  rocks  three  figures  had  come.  Two  of  them  carried 
rifles.  All  three  of  them  he  recognized.  His  astonish 
ment  paralyzed  the  scurrilous  tongue.  What  was 
McRae's  girl  doing  at  the  camp  of  the  officer? 

It  was  characteristic  of  him  that  he  suspected  the 
worst  of  her.  Either  Tom  Morse  or  this  red-coat  had 
beaten  him  to  his  prey.  Jealousy  and  outraged  vanity 
flared  up  in  him  so  that  discretion  vanished. 

The  barrel  of  his  revolver  came  down  and  began  to 
spit  flame. 

Beresford  gave  orders.  "Back  to  the  rocks."  He 
retreated,  backward,  firing  as  he  moved. 

The  companions  of  West  surged  forward.  Shots, 
shouts,  the  shifting  blur  of  moving  figures,  filled  the 


AT  SWEET  WATER  CREEK     71 

night.  Under  cover  of  the  darkness  the  defenders 
reached  again  the  big  rocks. 

The  constable  counted  noses.  "Everybody  all  right?  " 
he  asked.  Then,  abruptly,  he  snapped  out:  "Who  was 
responsible  for  that  crazy  business  of  you  coming  out 
into  the  open?" 

"Me,"  said  the  girl.  "I  wanted  that  West  to  know 
you  were  n't  alone." 

"Did  n't  you  know  better  than  to  let  her  do  it?"  the 
officer  demanded  of  Morse. 

"He  couldn't  help  it.  He  tried  to  keep  me  back. 
What  right  has  he  to  interfere  with  me?"  she  wanted  to 
know,  stiffening. 

"You'll  do  as  I  say  now,"  the  constable  said  crisply. 
"Get  back  of  that  rock  there,  Miss  McRae,  and  stay 
there.  Don't  move  from  cover  unless  I  tell  you  to." 

Her  dark,  stormy  eyes  challenged  his,  but  she  moved 
sullenly  to  obey.  Rebel  though  she  was,  the  code  of  the 
frontier  claimed  and  held  her  respect.  She  had  learned 
of  life  that  there  were  times  when  her  will  must  be  subor 
dinated  for  the  general  good. 


CHAPTER  IX 
TOM  MAKES  A  COLLECTION 

THE  attackers  drew  back  and  gathered  together  for 
consultation.  West's  anger  had  stirred  their  own  smol 
dering  resentment  at  the  police,  had  dominated  them, 
and  had  brought  them  on  a  journey  of  vengeance.  But 
they  had  not  come  out  with  any  intention  of  storming 
a  defended  fortress.  The  enthusiasm  of  the  small  mob 
ebbed. 

"I  reckon  we  done  bit  off  more'n  we  can  chaw," 
Harvey  Gosse  murmured,  rubbing  his  bristly  chin.  "I 
ain't  what  you  might  call  noways  anxious  to  have  them 
fellows  spill  lead  into  me." 

"Ten  of  us  here.  One  man,  an  Injun,  an*  a  breed  girl 
over  there.  You  lookin'  for  better  odds,  Harv?"  jeered 
the  leader  of  the  party. 

"I  never  heard  that  a  feller  was  any  less  dead  because 
an  Injun  or  a  girl  shot  him,"  the  lank  smuggler  retorted. 

"Be  reasonable,  Bully,"  urged  Barney  with  his  in 
gratiating  whine.  "We  come  out  to  fix  the  red-coat. 
We  figured  he  was  alone  except  for  Tom,  an'  o'  course 
Tom's  with  us.  But  this  here's  a  different  proposition. 
Too  many  witnesses  ag'in'  us.  I  reckon  you  ain't  tellin' 
us  it's  safe  to  shoot  up  Angus  McRae's  daughter  even 
if  she  is  a  metis." 

"Forget  her,"  the  big  whiskey-runner  snarled.  "She 
won't  be  a  witness  against  us." 


TOM  MAKES  A  COLLECTION         73 

"Why  won't  she?" 

"Hell's  hinges!  Do  I  have  to  tell  you  all  my  plans? 
I'm  sayin'  she  won't.  That  goes."  He  flung  out  a  ges 
ture  of  scarcely  restrained  rage.  He  was  not  one  who 
could  reason  away  opposition  with  any  patience.  It 
was  his  temperament  to  override  it. 

Brad  Stearns  rubbed  his  bald  head.  He  always  did 
when  he  was  working  out  a  mental  problem.  West's 
declaration  could  mean  only  one  of  two  things.  Either 
the  girl  would  not  be  alive  to  give  witness  or  she  would 
be  silent  because  she  had  thrown  in  her  lot  with  the  big 
trader. 

The  old-timer  knew  West's  vanity  and  his  weakness 
for  women.  From  Tom  Morse  he  had  heard  of  his  offer 
to  McRae  for  the  girl.  Now  he  had  no  doubt  what  the 
man  intended. 

But  what  of  her?  What  of  the  girl  he  had  seen  at  her 
father's  camp,  the  heart's  desire  of  the  rugged  old 
Scotchman?  In  the  lightness  of  her  step,  in  the  lift  of 
her  head,  in  speech  and  gesture  and  expression  of  face, 
she  was  of  the  white  race,  an  inheritor  of  its  civilization 
and  of  its  traditions.  Only  her  dusky  color  and  a  cer 
tain  wild  shyness  seemed  born  of  the  native  blood  in  her. 
She  was  proud,  passionate,  high-spirited.  Would  she 
tamely  accept  Bully  West  for  her  master  and  go  to  his 
tent  as  his  squaw?  Brad  did  n't  believe  it.  She  would 
fight  —  fight  desperately,  with  barbaric  savagery. 

Her  fight  would  avail  her  nothing.  If  driven  to  it, 
West  would  take  her  with  him  into  the  fastnesses  of  the 
Lone  Lands.  They  would  disappear  from  the  sight  of 
men  for  months.  He  would  travel  swiftly  with  her  to  the 


74  MAN-SIZE 

great  river.  Every  sweep  of  his  canoe  paddle  would 
carry  them  deeper  into  that  virgin  North  where  they 
could  live  on  what  his  rifle  and  rod  won  for  the  pot.  A 
little  salt,  pemmican,  and  flour  would  be  all  the  supplies 
he  needed  to  take  with  them. 

Brad  had  no  intention  of  being  a  cat's-paw  for  him. 
The  older  man  had  come  along  to  save  Torn  Morse 
from  prison  and  for  no  other  reason.  He  did  not  intend 
to  be  swept  into  indiscriminate  crime. 

"Don't  go  with  me,  Bully,"  Stearns  said.  "  Count  me 
out.  Right  here's  where  I  head  for  Whoop-Up." 

He  turned  his  horse's  head  and  rode  into  the  darkness. 

West  looked  after  him,  cursing.  "We're  better  off 
without  the  white-livered  coyote,"  he  said  at  last. 

"Brad  ain't  so  fur  off  at  that.  I'd  like  blame  well  to 
be  moseyin'  to  Whoop-Up  my  own  self,"  Gosse  said 
uneasily. 

"You'll  stay  right  here  an'  go  through  with  this  job, 
Harv,"  West  told  him  flatly.  "All  you  boys '11  do  just 
that.  If  any  of  you 's  got  a  different  notion  we  '11  settle 
that  here  an*  now.  How  about  it?"  He  straddled  up 
and  down  in  front  of  his  men,  menacing  them  with 
knotted  fists  and  sulky  eyes. 

Nobody  cared  to  argue  the  matter  with  him.  He 
showed  his  broken  teeth  in  a  sour  grin. 

"Tha's  settled,  then,"  he  went  on.  "It's  my  say-so. 
My  orders  go  —  if  there's  no  objections." 

His  outthrust  head,  set  low  on  the  hunched  shoulders, 
moved  from  right  to  left  threateningly  as  his  gaze 
passed  from  one  to  another.  If  there  were  any  objec 
tions  they  were  not  mentioned  aloud. 


TOM  MAKES  A  COLLECTION         75 

"Now  we  know  where  we're  at,"  he  continued. 
"It'll  be  thisaway.  Most  of  us  will  scatter  out  an'  fire 
at  the  rocks  from  the  front  here;  the  others '11  sneak 
round  an'  come  up  from  behind  —  get  right  into  the 
rocks  before  this  bully-puss  fellow  knows  it.  If  you  get 
a  chance,  plug  him  in  the  back,  but  don't  hurt  the  Injun 
girl.  Y'  understand?  I  want  her  alive  an'  not  wounded. 
If  she  gets  shot  up,  some  one's  liable  to  get  his  head 
knocked  off." 

But  it  did  not,  after  all,  turn  out  quite  the  way  West 
had  planned  it.  He  left  out  of  account  one  factor  —  a 
man  among  the  rocks  who  had  been  denied  a  weapon 
and  any  part  in  the  fighting. 

The  feint  from  the  front  was  animated  enough.  The 
attackers  scattered  and  from  behind  clumps  of  brush 
grass  and  bushes  poured  in  a  fire  that  kept  the  defenders 
busy.  Barney,  with  the  half-breeds  and  the  Indian  at 
heel,  made  a  wide  circle  and  crept  up  to  the  red  sand 
stone  outcroppings.  He  did  not  relish  the  job  any  more 
than  those  behind  him  did,  but  he  was  a  creature  of 
West  and  usually  did  as  he  was  told  after  a  bit  of  grum 
bling.  It  was  not  safe  for  him  to  refuse. 

To  Tom  Morse,  used  to  Bully  West  and  his  ways,  the 
frontal  attack  did  not  seem  quite  genuine.  It  was 
desultory  and  ineffective.  Why?  What  trick  did  Bully 
have  up  his  sleeve?  Tom  put  himself  in  his  place  to  see 
what  he  would  do. 

And  instantly  he  knew.  The  real  attack  would  come 
from  the  rear.  With  the  firing  of  the  first  shot  back 
there,  Bully  West  would  charge.  Taken  on  both  sides 
the  garrison  would  fall  easy  victims. 


76  MAN-SIZE 

The  constable  and  Onistah  were  busy  answering  the 
fire  of  the  smugglers.  Sleeping  Dawn  was  crouched 
down  behind  two  rocks,  the  barrel  of  her  rifle  gleaming 
through  a  slit  of  open  space  between  them.  She  was 
compromising  between  the  orders  given  her  and  the  anxi 
ety  in  her  to  fight  back  Bully  West.  As  much  as  she  could 
she  kept  under  cover,  while  at  the  same  time  firing  into 
the  darkness  whenever  she  thought  she  saw  a  movement. 

Morse  slipped  rearward  on  a  tour  of  investigation. 
The  ground  here  fell  away  rather  sharply,  so  that  one 
coming  from  behind  would  have  to  climb  over  a  boulder 
field  rising  to  the  big  rocks.  It  took  Tom  only  a  casual 
examination  to  see  that  a  surprise  would  have  to  be 
launched  by  way  of  a  sort  of  rough  natural  stairway. 

A  flat  shoulder  of  sandstone  dominated  the  stairway 
from  above.  Upon  this  Morse  crouched,  every  sense 
alert  to  detect  the  presence  of  any  one  stealing  up  the 
pass.  He  waited,  eager  and  yet  patient.  What  he  was 
going  to  attempt  had  its  risk,  but  the  danger  whipped 
the  blood  in  his  veins  to  a  still  excitement. 

Occasionally,  at  intervals,  the  rifles  cracked.  Except 
for  that  no  other  sound  came  to  him.  He  could  keep  no 
count  of  time.  It  seemed  to  him  that  hours  slipped 
away.  In  reality  it  could  have  been  only  a  few  minutes. 

Below,  from  the  foot  of  the  winding  stairway,  there 
was  a  sound,  such  a  one  as  might  come  from  the  grind 
ing  of  loose  rubble  beneath  the  sole  of  a  boot.  Presently 
the  man  on  the  ledge  heard  it  again,  this  time  more 
distinctly.  Some  one  was  crawling  up  the  rocks. 

Tom  peered  into  the  darkness  intently.  He  could  see 
nothing  except  the  flat  rocks  disappearing  vaguely  in 


TOM  MAKES  A  COLLECTION         77 

the  gloom.  Nor  could  he  hear  again  the  crunch  of  a 
footstep  on  disintegrated  sandstone.  His  nerves  grew 
taut.  Could  he  have  made  a  mistake?  Was  there 
another  way  up  from  behind? 

Then,  at  the  turn  of  the  stairway,  a  few  feet  below 
him,  a  figure  rose  in  silhouette.  It  appeared  with  extra 
ordinary  caution,  first  a  head,  then  the  barrel  of  a  rifle, 
finally  a  crouched  body  followed  by  bowed  legs.  On 
hands  and  knees  it  crept  forward,  hitching  the  weapon 
along  beside  it.  Exactly  opposite  Morse,  under  the 
very  shadow  of  the  sloping  ledge  on  which  he  lay,  the 
figure  rose  and  straightened. 

The  man  stood  there  for  a  second,  making  up  his 
mind  to  move  on.  He  was  one  of  the  half-breeds  West 
had  brought  with  him.  Almost  into  his  ear  came  a  stern 
whisper. 

"Hands  up!  I've  got  you  covered.  Don't  move. 
Don't  say  a  word." 

Two  arms  shot  skyward.  In  the  fingers  of  one  hand  a 
rifle  was  clenched. 

Morse  leaned  forward  and  caught  hold  of  it.  "I'll 
take  this,"  he  said.  The  brown  fingers  relaxed.  "Skirt 
round  the  edge  of  the  rock  there.  Lie  face  down  in  that 
hollow.  Got  a  six-shooter." 

He  had.  Morse  took  it  from  him. 

"If  you  move  or  speak  one  word,  I'll  pump  lead  into 
you,"  the  Montanan  cautioned. 

The  half-breed  looked  into  his  chill  eyes  and  decided 
to  take  no  chances.  He  lay  down  on  his  face  with 
hands  stretched  out  exactly  as  ordered. 

His  captor  returned  to  the  shoulder  of  rock  above  the 


78  MAN-SIZE 

trail.  Presently  another  head  projected  itself  out  of  the 
darkness.  A  man  crept  up,  and  like  the  first  stopped  to 
take  stock  of  his  surroundings. 

Against  the  back  of  his  neck  something  cold  pressed. 

"Stick  up  your  hands,  Barney,"  a  voice  ordered. 

The  little  man  let  out  a  yelp.  "Mother  o'  Moses, 
don't  shoot." 

"How  many  more  of  you?"  asked  Morse  sharply. 

"One  more." 

The  man  behind  the  rifle  collected  his  weapons  and 
put  Barney  alongside  his  companion.  Within  five 
minutes  he  had  added  a  third  man  to  the  collection. 

With  a  sardonic  grin  he  drove  them  before  him  to 
Beresford. 

"I'm  a  prisoner  an'  not  in  this  show,  you  was  care 
ful  to  explain  to  me,  Mr.  Constable,  but  I  busted  the 
rules  an'  regulations  to  collect  a  few  specimens  of  my 
own,"  he  drawled  by  way  of  explanation. 

B^resford's  eyes  gleamed.  The  debonair  impudence 
of  the  procedure  appealed  mightily  to  him.  He  did  not 
know  how  this  young  fellow  had  done  it,  but  he  must 
have  acted  with  cool  nerve  and  superb  daring. 

"Where  were  they?  And  how  did  you  get  'em  without 
a  six-shooter?" 

"They  was  driftin'  up  the  pass  to  say  'How-d'you- 
do?'  from  the  back  stairway.  I  borrowed  a  gun  from 
one  o'  them.  I  asked  'em  to  come  along  with  me  and 
they  reckoned  they  would." 

The  booming  of  a  rifle  echoed  in  the  rocks  to  the  left. 
From  out  of  them  Jessie  McRae  came  flying,  something 
akin  to  terror  in  her  face. 


TOM  MAKES  A  COLLECTION         79 

"  I  've  shot  that  West.  He  tried  to  run  in  on  me  and  — 
ancj  —  I  snot  him."  Her  voice  broke  into  an  hysterical 
sob. 

"Thought  I  told  you  to  keep  out  of  this,"  the  con 
stable  said.  "I  seem  to  have  a  lot  of  valuable  volunteer 
help.  What  with  you  and  friend  Morse  here  -  '  He 
broke  off,  touched  at  her  distress.  "Never  mind  about 
that,  Miss  McRae.  He  had  it  coming  to  him.  I'll  go 
out  and  size  up  the  damage  to  him,  if  his  friends  have 
had  enough  —  and  chances  are  they  have." 

They  had.  Gosse  advanced  waving  a  red  bandanna 
handkerchief  as  a  flag  of  truce. 

"We  got  a  plenty,"  he  said  frankly.  "West's  down, 
an'  another  of  the  boys  got  winged.  No  use  us  goin'  on 
with  this  darned  foolishness.  We're  ready  to  call  it  off 
if  you'll  turn  Morse  loose." 

Beresford  had  walked  out  to  meet  him.  He  answered, 
curtly.  "No." 

The  long,  lank  whiskey-runner  rubbed  his  chin  bris 
tles  awkwardly.  "We  'lowed  maybe —  " 

"I  keep  my  prisoners,  both  Morse  and  Barney." 

"Barney!"  repeated  Gosse,  surprised. 

"Yes,  we've  got  him  and  two  others.  I  don't  want 
them.  I'll  turn  'em  over  to  you.  But  not  Morse  and 
Barney.  They  're  going  to  the  post  with  me  for  whiskey- 
running." 

Gosse  went  back  to  the  camp-fire,  where  the  Whoop- 
Up  men  had  carried  their  wounded  leader.  Except  West, 
they  were  all  glad  to  drop  the  battle.  The  big  smuggler, 
lying  on  the  ground  with  a  bullet  in  his  thigh,  cursed 
them  for  a  group  of  chicken-hearted  quitters.  His  anger 


80  MAN-SIZE 

could  not  shake  their  decision.  They  knew  when  they 
had  had  enough. 

The  armistice  concluded,  Beresf  ord  and  Morse  walked 
over  to  the  camp-fire  to  find  out  how  badly  West  was  hurt. 

"Sorry  I  had  to  hit  you,  but  you  would  have  it,  you 
know,"  the  constable  told  him  grimly. 

The  man  snapped  his  teeth  at  him  like  a  wolf  in  a 
trap.  "You  didn't  hit  me,  you  liar.  It  was  that  liT 
hell-cat  of  McRae.  You  tell  her  for  me  I  '11  get  her  right 
for  this,  sure  as  my  name's  Bully  West." 

There  was  something  horribly  menacing  in  his  rage. 
In  the  jumping  light  of  the  flames  the  face  was  that  of  a 
demon,  a  countenance  twisted  and  tortured  by  the  im 
potent  lust  to  destroy. 

Morse  spoke,  looking  steadily  at  him  in  his  quiet  way. 
"I'm  servin'  notice,  West,  that  you're  to  let  that  girl 
alone." 

There  was  a  sound  in  the  big  whiskey-runner's  throat 
like  that  of  an  infuriated  wild  animal.  He  glared  at 
Morse,  a  torrent  of  abuse  struggling  for  utterance.  All 
that  he  could  say  was,  "You  damned  traitor." 

The  eyes  of  the  younger  man  did  not  waver.  "  It  goes. 
I'll  see  you're  shot  like  a  wolf  if  you  harm  her." 

The  wounded  smuggler's  fury  outleaped  prudence. 
In  a  surge  of  momentary  insanity  he  saw  red.  The 
barrel  of  his  revolver  rose  swiftly.  A  bullet  sang  past 
Morse's  ear.  Before  he  could  fire  again,  Harvey  Gosse 
had  flung  himself  on  the  man  and  wrested  the  weapon 
from  his  hand. 

Hard-eyed  and  motionless,  Morse  looked  down  at  the 
madman  without  saying  a  word.  It  was  Beresf  ord  who 


TOM  MAKES  A  COLLECTION.        81 

said  ironically,  "Talking  about  those  who  keep  faith." 

"You  hadn't  oughta  of  done  that,  Bully,"  Gosse 
expostulated.  "We'd  done  agreed  this  feud  was  off  for 
to-night." 

"Get  your  horses  and  clear  out  of  here,"  the  constable 
ordered.  "  If  this  man 's  able  to  fight  he 's  able  to  travel. 
You  can  make  camp  farther  down  the  creek." 

A  few  minutes  later  the  clatter  of  horse-hoofs  died 
away.  Beresford  was  alone  with  his  prisoners  and  his 
guests. 

Those  who  were  still  among  the  big  rocks  came  for 
ward  to  the  camp-fire.  Jessie  arrived  before  the  others. 
She  had  crept  to  the  camp  on  the  heels  of  Beresford  and 
Morse,  driven  by  her  great  anxiety  to  find  out  how 
badly  West  was  hurt. 

From  the  shadows  of  a  buffalo  wallow  she  had  seen 
and  heard  what  had  taken  place. 

One  glance  of  troubled  curiosity  she  flashed  at  Morse. 
What  sort  of  man  was  this  quiet,  brown-faced  American 
who  smuggled  whiskey  in  to  ruin  the  tribes,  who  could 
ruthlessly  hold  a  girl  to  a  bargain  that  included  horse 
whipping  for  her,  who  for  some  reason  of  his  own  fought 
beside  the  man  taking  him  to  imprisonment,  and  who 
had  flung  defiance  at  the  terrible  Bully  West  on  her 
behalf?  She  hated  him.  She  always  would.  But  with 
her  dislike  of  him  ran  another  feeling  now,  born  of  the 
knowledge  of  new  angles  in  him. 

He  was  hard  as  nails,  but  he  would  do  to  ride  the 
river  with. 


CHAPTER  X 
A  CAMP-FIRE  TALE 

t 

ANOTHER  surprise  was  waiting  for  Jessie.  As  soon  as 
Onistah  came  into  the  circle  of  light,  he  walked  straight 
to  the  whiskey-smuggler. 

"You  save  my  life  from  Crees.  Thanks,"  he  said  in 
English. 

Onistah  offered  his  hand. 

The  white  man  took  it.  He  was  embarrassed.  "Oh, 
well,  I  kinda  took  a  hand." 

The  Indian  was  not  through.  "Onistah  never  forget. 
He  pay  some  day." 

Tom  waved  this  aside.  "How's  the  leg?  Seems  to  be 
all  right  now." 

Swiftly  Jessie  turned  to  the  Indian  and  asked  him  a 
question  in  the  native  tongue.  He  answered.  They 
exchanged  another  sentence  or  two. 

The  girl  spoke  to  Morse.  "Onistah  is  my  brother.  I 
too  thank  you,"  she  said  stiffly. 

"  Your  brother !  He 's  not  Angus  McRae's  son,  is  he?  " 

"No.  And  I'm  not  his  daughter  — really.  I'll  tell 
you  about  that,"  she  said  with  a  touch  of  the  defensive 
defiance  that  always  came  into  her  manner  when  the 
subject  of  her  birth  was  referred  to. 

She  did,  later,  over  the  camp-fire. 

It  is  fortunate  that  desire  and  opportunity  do  not 
always  march  together.  The  constable  and  Morse  had 
both  been  dead  men  if  Bully  West  could  have  killed 


A  CAMP-FIRE  TALE  83 

with  a  wish.  Sleeping  Dawn  would  have  been  on  the 
road  to  an  existence  worse  than  death.  Instead,  they 
sat  in  front  of  the  coals  of  buffalo  chips  while  the  big 
smuggler  and  his  companions  rode  away  from  an  igno 
minious  field  of  battle. 

When  the  constable  and  his  prisoner  had  first  struck 
camp,  there  had  been  two  of  them.  Now  there  were  six. 
For  in  addition  to  Jessie  McRae,  the  Blackfoot,  and 
Barney,  another  had  come  out  of  the  night  and  hailed 
them  with  a  "Hello,  the  camp!"  This  last  self-invited 
guest  was  Brad  Stearns,  who  had  not  ridden  to  Whoop- 
Up  as  he  had  announced,  but  had  watched  events  from 
a  distance  on  the  chance  that  he  might  be  of  help  to 
Tom  Morse. 

Jessie  agreed  with  Beresford  that  she  must  stay  in 
camp  till  morning.  There  was  nothing  else  for  her  to  do. 
She  could  not  very  well  ride  the  night  out  with  Onistah 
on  the  road  back  to  the  fort.  But  she  stayed  with  great 
reluctance. 

Her  modesty  was  in  arms.  Never  before  had  she,  a 
girl  alone,  been  forced  to  make  camp  with  five  men  as 
companions,  all  but  one  of  them  almost  strangers  to 
her.  The  experience  was  one  that  shocked  her  sense  of 
fitness. 

She  was  troubled  and  distressed,  and  she  showed  it. 
Her  impulsiveness  had  swept  her  into  an  adventure 
that  might  have  been  tragic,  that  still  held  potentialities 
of  disaster.  For  she  could  not  forget  the  look  on  West's 
face  when  he  had  sworn  to  get  even  with  her.  This  man 
was  a  terrible  enemy,  because  of  his  boldness,  his  evil 
mind,  and  his  lack  of  restraining  conscience. 


84  MAN-SIZE 

Yet  even  now  she  could  not  blame  herself  for 
what  she  had  done.  The  constable's  life  was  at  stake. 
It  had  been  necessary  to  move  swiftly  and  deci 
sively. 

Sitting  before  the  fire,  Sleeping  Dawn  began  to  tell 
her  story.  She  told  it  to  Beresford  as  an  apology  for 
having  ridden  forty  miles  with  Onistah  to  save  his  life. 
It  was,  if  he  chose  so  to  accept  it,  an  explanation  of  how 
she  came  to  do  so  unwomanly  a  thing. 

"Onistah's  mother  is  my  mother,"  she  said.  "When 
I  was  a  baby  my  own  mother  died.  Stokimatis  is  her 
sister.  I  do  not  know  who  my  father  was,  but  I  have 
heard  he  was  an  American.  Stokimatis  took  me  to  her 
tepee  and  I  lived  there  with  her  and  Onistah  till  I  was 
five  or  six.  Then  Angus  McRae  saw  me  one  day.  He 
liked  me,  so  he  bought  me  for  three  yards  of  tobacco, 
a  looking-glass,  and  five  wolf  pelts." 

It  may  perhaps  have  been  by  chance  that  the  girl's 
eyes  met  those  of  Morse.  The  blood  burned  beneath  the 
tan  of  her  dusky  cheeks,  but  her  proud  eyes  did  not 
flinch  while  she  told  the  damning  facts  about  her  parent 
age  and  life.  She  was  of  the  metis,  the  child  of  an  un 
known  father.  So  far  as  she  knew  her  mother  had  never 
been  married.  She  had  been  bought  and  sold  like  a  negro 
slave  in  the  South.  Let  any  one  that  wanted  to  despise 
her  make  the  most  of  all  this. 

So  far  as  any  expression  went  Tom  Morse  looked  hard 
as  pig  iron.  He  did  not  want  to  blunder,  so  he  said 
nothing.  But  the  girl  would  have  been  amazed  if  she 
could  have  read  his  thoughts.  She  seemed  to  him  a  rare 
flower  that  has  blossomed  in  a  foul  swamp. 


A  CAMP-FIRE  TALE  85 

"If  Angus  McRae  took  you  for  his  daughter,  it  was 
because  he  loved  you,"  Beresford  said  gently. 

"Yes."  The  mobile  face  was  suddenly  tender  with 
emotion.  "What  can  any  father  do  more  than  he  has 
done  for  me?  I  learned  to  read  and  write  at  his  knee. 
He  taught  me  the  old  songs  of  Scotland  that  he's  so  fond 
of.  He  tried  to  make  me  good  and  true.  Afterward  he 
sent  me  to  Winnipeg  to  school  for  two  years." 

"Good  for  Angus  McRae,"  the  young  soldier  said. 

She  smiled,  a  little  wistfully.  "He  wants  me  to  be 
Scotch,  but  of  course  I  can't  be  that  even  though  I  sing 
'Should  auld  acquaintance'  to  him.  I'm  what  I  am." 

Ever  since  she  had  learned  to  think  for  herself,  she 
had  struggled  against  the  sense  of  racial  inferiority. 
Even  in  the  Lone  Lands  men  of  education  had  crossed 
her  path.  There  was  Father  Giguere,  tall  and  austere 
and  filled  with  the  wisdom  of  years,  a  scholar  who  had 
left  his  dear  France  to  serve  on  the  outposts  of  civiliza 
tion.  And  there  was  the  old  priest's  devoted  friend  Philip 
Muir,  of  whom  the  story  ran  that  he  was  heir  to  a  vast 
estate  across  the  seas.  Others  she  had  seen  at  Winnipeg. 
And  now  this  scarlet-coated  soldier  Beresford. 

Instinctively  she  recognized  the  difference  between 
them  and  the  trappers  and  traders  who  frequented  the 
North  woods.  In  her  bed  at  night  she  had  more  than 
once  wept  herself  to  sleep  because  life  had  built  an  im 
passable  barrier  between  what  she  was  and  what  she 
wanted  to  be. 

"To  the  Scot  nobody  is  quite  like  a  Scot,"  Beresford 
admitted  with  a  smile.  "  When  he  wants  to  make  you 
one,  Mr.  McRae  pays  you  a  great  compliment." 


86  MAN-SIZE 

The  girl  flashed  a  look  of  gratitude  at  him  and  went 
on  with  her  story.  "Whenever  we  are  near  Stokimatis, 
I  go  to  see  her.  She  has  always  been  very  fond  of  me. 
It  was  n't  really  for  money  she  sold  me,  but  because 
she  knew  Angus  McRae  could  bring  me  up  better 
than  she  could.  I  was  with  her  to-day  when  Onistah 
came  in  and  told  us  what  this  West  was  going  to  do. 
There  was  n't  time  for  me  to  reach  Father.  I  could  n't 
trust  anybody  at  Whoop-Up,  and  I  was  afraid  if  Onistah 
came  alone,  you  would  n't  believe  him.  You  know  how 
people  are  about  —  about  Indians.  So  I  saddled  a  horse 
and  rode  with  him." 

"That  was  fine  of  you.  I'll  never  forget  it,  Miss 
McRae,"  the  young  soldier  said  quietly,  his  eyes  for  an 
instant  full  on  hers.  "I  don't  think  I've  ever  met 
another  girl  who  would  have  had  the  good  sense  and  the 
courage  to  do  it." 

Her  eyes  fell  from  his.  She  felt  a  queer  delightful 
thrill  run  through  her  blood.  He  still  respected  her, 
was  even  grateful  to  her  for  what  she  had  done.  No 
experience  in  the  ways  of  men  and  maids  warned  her 
that  there  was  another  cause  for  the  quickened  pulse. 
Youth  had  looked  into  the  eyes  of  youth  and  made  the 
world-old  call  of  sex  to  sex. 

In  a  little  pocket  opening  from  the  draw  Morse 
arranged  blankets  for  the  girl's  bed.  He  left  Beresford 
to  explain  to  her  that  she  could  sleep  there  alone  with 
out  fear,  since  a  guard  would  keep  watch  against  any 
possible  surprise  attack. 

When  the  soldier  did  tell  her  this,  Jessie  smiled  back 
her  reassurance.  "I'm  not  afraid  —  not  the  least 


A  CAMP-FIRE  TALE  87 

littlest  bit,"  she  said  buoyantly.  "I'll  sleep  right 
away." 

But  she  did  not.  Jessie  was  awake  to  the  finger-tips, 
her  veins  apulse  with  the  flow  of  rushing  rivers  of  life. 
Her  chaotic  thoughts  centered  about  two  men.  One 
had  followed  crooked  trails  for  his  own  profit.  There 
was  something  in  him  hard  and  unyielding  as  flint. 
He  would  go  to  his  chosen  end,  whatever  that  might  be, 
over  and  through  any  obstacles  that  might  rise.  But 
to-night,  on  her  behalf,  he  had  thrown  down  the  gaunt 
let  to  Bully  West,  the  most  dreaded  desperado  on  the 
border.  Why  had  he  done  it?  Was  he  sorry  because  he 
had  forced  her  father  to  horsewhip  her?  Or  was  his 
warning  merely  the  snarl  of  one  wolf  at  another? 

The  other  man  was  of  a  different  stamp.  He  had 
brought  with  him  from  the  world  whence  he  had  come  a 
debonair  friendliness,  an  ease  of  manner,  a  smile  very 
boyish  and  charming.  In  his  jaunty  forage  cap  and 
scarlet  jacket  he  was  one  to  catch  and  hold  the  eye  by 
reason  of  his  engaging  personality.  He  too  had  fought 
her  battle.  She  had  heard  him,  in  that  casually  careless 
way  of  his,  try  to  take  the  blame  of  having  wounded 
West.  Her  happy  thoughts  went  running  out  to  him 
gratefully. 

Not  the  least  cause  of  her  gratitude  was  that  there 
had  not  been  the  remotest  hint  in  his  manner  that  there 
was  any  difference  between  her  and  any  white  girl  he 
might  meet. 


CHAPTER  XI 

C.  N.  MORSE  TURNS  OVER  A  LEAF 

THE  North- West  Mounted  Police  had  authority  not 
only  to  arrest,  but  to  try  and  to  sentence  prisoners. 
The  soldierly  inspector  who  sat  in  judgment  on  Morse 
at  Fort  Macleod  heard  the  evidence  and  stroked  an 
iron-gray  mustache  reflectively.  As  he  understood  it, 
his  business  was  to  stop  whiskey-running  rather  than 
to  send  men  to  jail.  Beresford's  report  on  this  young 
aaan  was  in  his  favor.  The  inspector  adventured  into 
psychology. 

"Studied  the  Indians  any  —  the  effect  of  alcohol  on 
them?"  he  asked  Morse. 

"Some,"  the  prisoner  answered. 

"Don't  you  think  it  bad  for  them?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Perhaps  you've  been  here  longer  than  I.  Is  n't  this 
whiskey-smuggling  bad  business  all  round?" 

"Not  for  the  smuggler.  Speakin'  as  an  outsider,  I 
reckon  he  does  it  because  he  makes  money,"  Morse 
answered  impersonally. 

"For  the  country,  I  mean.  For  the  trapper,  for  the 
breeds,  for  the  Indians." 

"No  doubt  about  that." 

"You're  a  nephew  of  C.  N.  Morse,  aren't  you?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Wish  you'd  take  him  a  message  from  me.  Tell  him 
that  it's  bad  business  for  a  big  trading  firm  like  his  to 


C.  N.  MORSE  TURNS  OVER  A  LEAF    89 

be  smuggling  whiskey."  The  officer  raised  a  hand  to 
stop  the  young  man's  protest.  "Yes,  I  knoV  you're 
going  to  tell  me  that  we  have  n't  proved  he 's  been  smug 
gling.  We'll  pass  that  point.  Carry  him  my  message. 
Just  say  it 's  bad  business.  You  can  tell  him  if  you  want 
to  that  we're  here  to  put  an  end  to  it  and  we're  going 
to  do  it.  But  stress  the  fact  that  it  is  n't  good  business. 
Understand?" 

"Yes." 

"Very  well,  sir."  A  glint  of  a  smile  showed  in  the 
inspector's  eyes.  "I'll  give  you  a  Scotch  verdict,  young 
man.  Not  guilty,  but  don't  do  it  again.  You're  dis 
charged." 

"Barney,  too?" 

"Hmp!  He's  a  horse  of  another  color.  Think  we'll 
send  him  over  the  plains." 

"Why  make  two  bites  of  a  cherry,  sir?  He  can't  be 
guilty  if  I'm  not,"  the  released  prisoner  said. 

"Did  I  say  you  weren't?"  Inspector  MacLean 
countered. 

"Not  worth  the  powder,  is  he,  sir?"  Tom  insinuated 
nonchalantly.  "Rather  a  fathead,  Barney  is.  If  he's 
guilty,  it's  not  as  a  principal.  You'd  much  better  send 
me  up." 

The  officer  laughed  behind  the  hand  that  stroked  the 
mustache.  "Do  you  want  to  be  judge  and  jury  as  well 
as  prisoner,  my  lad?" 

"Thought  perhaps  my  uncle  would  understand  the 
spirit  of  your  message  better  if  Barney  went  along 
with  me,  Inspector."  The  brown  eyes  were  open  and 
guileless. 


90  MAN-SIZE 

MacLean  studied  the  Montanan  deliberately.  He 
began  to  recognize  unusual  qualities  in  this  youth. 

" Can't  say  I  care  for  your  friend  Barney.  He's  a  bad 
egg,  or  I  miss  my  guess." 

"Not  much  taken  with  him  myself.  Thought  if  I'd 
get  him  to  travel  south  with  me  it  might  save  you  some 
trouble." 

"It  might,"  the  Inspector  agreed.  "It's  his  first 
offense  so  far  as  I  know."  Under  bristling  eyebrows 
he  shot  a  swift  look  at  this  self-assured  youngster.  He 
had  noticed  that  men  matured  at  an  early  age  on  the 
frontier.  The  school  of  emergency  developed  them  fast. 
But  Morse  struck  him  as  more  competent  even  than  the 
other  boyish  plainsmen  he  had  met.  "Will  you  be 
responsible  for  him?" 

The  Montanan  came  to  scratch  reluctantly.  He  had 
no  desire  to  be  bear  leader  for  such  a  doubtful  specimen 
as  Barney. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  after  a  pause. 

"Keep  him  in  the  States,  will  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Take  him  along,  then.  Wish  you  luck  of  him." 

As  soon  as  he  reached  Fort  Benton,  Tom  reported  to 
his  uncle.  He  told  the  story  of  the  whiskey  cargo  and 
its  fate,  together  with  his  own  adventures  subsequent 
to  that  time. 

The  head  of  the  trading  firm  was  a  long,  loose-jointed 
Yankee  who  had  drifted  West  in  his  youth.  Since  then 
he  had  acquired  gray  hairs  and  large  business  interests. 
At  Inspector  MacLean's  message  he  grinned. 

"Thinks  it's  bad  business,  does  he?" 


C.  N.  MORSE  TURNS  OVER  A  LEAF    91 

"Told  me  to  tell  you  so,"  Tom  answered. 

"Did  n't  say  why,  I  guess." 

"No." 

The  old  New  Englander  fished  from  a  hip  pocket  a 
plug  of  tobacco,  cut  off  a  liberal  chew,  and  stowed  this 
in  his  cheek.  Then,  lounging  back  in  the  chair,  he 
cocked  a  shrewd  eye  at  his  nephew. 

"Wonder  what  he  meant." 

Tom  volunteered  no  opinion.  He  recognized  his 
uncle's  canny  habit  of  fishing  in  other  people's  minds  for 
confirmation  of  what  was  in  his  own. 

"Got  any  idee  what  he  was  drivin'  at?"  the  old  pio 
neer  went  on. 

"Sorta." 

C.  N.  Morse  chuckled.  " Got  a  notion  myself .  Let's 
hear  yours." 

"The  trade  with  the  North-West  Mounted  is  gonna 
be  big  for  a  while.  The  Force  needs  all  kinds  of  supplies. 
It'll  have  to  deal  through  some  firm  in  Benton  as  a 
clearin'  house.  He's  servin'  notice  that  unless  C.  N. 
Morse  &  Company  mends  its  ways,  it  can't  do  business 
with  the  N.W.M.P." 

"That  all?"  asked  the  head  of  the  firm. 

"That's  only  half  of  it.  The  other  half  is  that  no  firm 
of  whiskey-runners  will  be  allowed  to  trade  across  the 
line." 

C.  N.  gave  another  little  chirrup  of  mirth.  "Keep 
your  brains  whittled  up,  don't  you?  Any  advice  you'd 
like  to  give?" 

Tom  was  not  to  be  drawn.   "None,  sir." 

"No comments,  son?  Passin'  it  up  to  Uncle  Newt,  eh?  " 


92  MAN-SIZE 

"You're  the  head  of  the  firm.  I'm  hired  to  do  as 
I'm  told." 

"You  figure  on  obeyin*  orders  and  lettin'  it  go  at 
that?" 

"Not  quite."  The  young  fellow's  square  chin  jutted 
out.  "For  instance,  I'm  not  gonna  smuggle  liquor 
through  any  more.  I  had  my  eyes  opened  this  trip. 
You  have  n't  been  on  the  ground  like  I  have.  If  you 
want  a  plain  word  for  it,  Uncle  Newt  —  " 

"Speak  right  out  in  meetin',  Tom.  Should  n't  won 
der  but  what  I  can  stand  it."  The  transplanted  Yankee 
slanted  at  his  nephew  a  quizzical  smile.  "I  been  hearin' 
more  or  less  plain  language  for  quite  a  spell,  son." 

Tom  gave  it  to  him  straight  from  the  shoulder, 
quietly  but  without  apology.  "Sellin'  whiskey  to  the 
tribes  results  in  wholesale  murder,  sir." 

"Strong  talk,  boy,"  his  uncle  drawled. 

"Not  too  strong.  You  know  I  don't  mean  anything 
personal,  Uncle  Newt.  To  understand  this  thing  you  've 
got  to  go  up  there  an'  see  it.  The  plains  tribes  up  there 
go  crazy  over  fire-water  an'  start  killin'  each  other.  It 's 
a  crime  to  let  'em  have  it." 

Young  Morse  began  to  tell  stories  of  instances  that 
had  come  under  his  own  observation,  of  others  that  he 
had  heard  from  reliable  sources.  Presently  he  found 
himself  embarked  on  the  tale  of  his  adventures  with 
Sleeping  Dawn. 

The  fur-trader  heard  him  patiently.  The  dusty 
wrinkled  boots  of  the  merchant  rested  on  the  desk.  His 
chair  was  tilted  back  in  such  a  way  that  the  weight  of 
his  body  was  distributed  between  the  back  of  his  neck, 


C.  N.  MORSE  TURNS  OVER  A  LEAF    93 

the  lower  end  of  the  spine,  and  his  heels.  He  looked  a 
picture  of  sleepy,  indolent  ease,  but  Tom  knew  he  was 
not  missing  the  least  detail. 

A  shadow  darkened  the  doorway  of  the  office.  Behind 
it  straddled  a  huge,  ungainly  figure. 

"'Lo,  West!  How  're  tricks?"  C.  N.  Morse  asked  in 
his  lazy  way.  He  did  not  rise  from  the  chair  or  offer  to 
shake  hands,  but  that  might  be  because  it  was  not  his 
custom  to  exert  himself. 

West  stopped  in  his  stride,  choking  with  wrath.  He 
had  caught  sight  of  Tom  and  was  glaring  at  him. 
"You're  here,  eh?  Sneaked  home  to  try  to  square  your 
self  with  the  old  man,  did  ya?"  The  trail  foreman 
turned  to  the  uncle.  "  I  wanta  tell  you  he  double-crossed 
you  for  fair,  C.  N.  He 's  got  a  heluva  nerve  to  come  back 
here  after  playin'  in  with  the  police  the  way  he  done  up 
there." 

"I've  heard  something  about  that,"  the  fur-trader 
admitted  cautiously.  "  You  told  me  Tom  an*  you  did  n't 
exactly  gee." 

"He'll  neiver  drive  another  bull-team  for  me  again." 
West  tacked  to  his  pronouncement  a  curdling  oath. 

"We'll  call  that  settled,  then.  You're  through  bull- 
whackin',  Tom."  There  was  a  little  twitch  of  whimsical 
mirth  at  the  corners  of  the  old  man's  mouth. 

"Now  you're  shoutin,  C.  N.  Threw  me  down  from 
start  to  finish,  he  did.  First  off,  when  the  breed  girl 
busted  the  casks,  he  took  her  home  'stead  of  bringin' 
her  to  me.  Then  at  old  McRae's  camp  when  I  was 
defendin'  myself,  he  jumped  me  too.  My  notion  is  from 
the  way  he  acted  that  he  let  on  to  the  red-coat  where  the 


94  MAN-SIZE 

cache  was.  Finally  when  I  rode  out  to  rescue  him,  he 
sided  in  with  the  other  fellow.  Had  n't  been  for  him  I  'd 
never  'a'  had  this  slug  in  my  leg."  The  big  smuggler 
spoke  with  extraordinary  vehemence,  spicing  his  speech 
liberally  with  sulphurous  language. 

The  grizzled  Yankee  accepted  the  foreman's  attitude 
with  a  wave  of  the  hand  that  dismissed  any  counter 
argument.  But  there  was  an  ironic  gleam  in  his  eye. 

"  'Nough  said,  West.  If  you  're  that  sot  on  it,  the  boy 
quits  the  company  pay-roll  as  an  employee  right  now. 
I  won't  have  him  annoyin'  you  another  hour.  He  be 
comes  a  member  of  the  firm  to-day." 

The  big  bully's  jaw  sagged.  He  stared  at  his  lean 
employer  as  though  a  small  bomb  had  exploded  at  his 
feet  and  numbed  his  brains.  But  he  was  no  more  sur 
prised  than  Tom,  whose  wooden  face  was  expression 
less. 

"Goddlemighty!  Ain't  I  jus'  been  tellin'  you  how  he 
wrecked  the  whole  show  —  how  he  sold  out  to  that 
bunch  of  spies  the  Canadian  Gov'ment  has  done  sent 
up  there?"  exploded  West. 

"Oh,  I  don't  guess  he  did  that,"  Morse,  Senior,  said 
lightly.  "  We  got  to  remember  that  times  are  changin', 
West.  Law's  comin'  into  the  country  an'  we  old-timers 
oughta  meet  it  halfway  with  the  glad  hand.  You  can't 
buck  the  Union  Jack  any  more  than  you  could  Uncle 
Sam.  I  figure  I've  sent  my  last  shipment  of  liquor 
across  the  line." 

"Scared,  are  you?"  sneered  the  trail  boss. 

"Maybe  I  am.  Reckon  I'm  too  old  to  play  the  smug 
gler's  game.  And  I  've  got  a  hankerin'  for  respectability 


C.  N.  MORSE  TURNS  OVER  A  LEAF    95 

—  want  the  firm  to  stand  well  with  the  new  settlers. 
Legitimate  business  from  now  on.  That's  our  motto, 
boys." 

"What  church  you  been  j'inin',  C.  N.?" 

"Well,  maybe  it'll  come  to  that  too.  Think  I'd 
make  a  good  deacon?"  the  merchant  asked  amiably, 
untwining  his  legs  and  rising  to  stretch. 

West  slammed  a  big  fist  on  the  table  so  that  the  ink 
well  and  the  pens  jumped.  "All  I  got  to  say  is  that  this 
new  Sunday-school  outfit  you  aim  to  run  won't  have 
no  use  for  a  he-man.  I'm  quittin'  you  right  now." 

The  foreman  made  the  threat  as  a  bluff.  He  was  the 
most  surprised  man  in  Montana  when  his  employer 
called  it  quietly,  speaking  still  in  the  slow,  nasal  voice 
of  perfect  good-nature. 

"Maybe  you're  right,  West.  That's  for  you  to  say, 
of  course.  You  know  your  own  business  best.  Figure 
out  your  time  an'  I'll  have  Benson  write  you  a  check. 
Hope  you  find  a  good  job." 

The  sense  of  baffled  anger  in  West  foamed  up.  His 
head  dropped  down  and  forward  threateningly. 

"You  do,  eh?  Lemme  tell  you  this,  C.  N.  I  don't 
ask  no  odds  of  you  or  any  other  guy.  Jes'  because 
you're  the  head  of  a  big  outfit  you  can't  run  on  me.  I 
won't  stand  for  it  a  minute." 

"Of  course  not.  I'd  know  better 'n  to  try  that  with 
you.  No  hard  feelings  even  if  you  quit  us."  It  was  a 
characteristic  of  the  New  Englander  that  while  he  was 
a  forceful  figure  in  this  man's  country,  he  rarely  quar 
reled  with  any  one. 

"That  so?    Well,  you  listen  here.    I  been  layin*  off 


96  MAN-SIZE 

that  new  pardner  of  yours  because  he's  yore  kin.  Not 
anymore.  Different  now.  He 's  liable  to  have  a  heluva 
time  an'  don't  you  forget  it  for  a  minute." 

The  fur-trader  chewed  his  cud  imperturbably.  When 
he  spoke  it  was  still  without  a  trace  of  acrimony. 

"Guess  you'll  think  better  of  that  maybe,  West. 
Guess  you're  a  little  hot  under  the  collar,  ain't  you? 
Don't  hardly  pay  to  hold  grudges,  does  it?  There  was 
Rhinegoldt  now.  Kept  nursin'  his  wrongs  an'  finally 
landed  in  the  pen.  Bad  medicine,  looks  like  to  me." 

West  was  no  imbecile.  He  understood  the  threat 
underneath  the  suave  words  of  the  storekeeper.  Rhine 
goldt  had  gone  to  the  penitentiary  because  C.  N.  Morse 
had  willed  it  so.  The  inference  was  that  another  law 
breaker  might  go  for  the  same  reason.  The  trail  boss 
knew  that  this  was  no  idle  threat.  Morse  could  put  him 
behind  the  bars  any  time  he  chose.  The  evidence  was 
in  his  hands. 

The  bully  glared  at  him.  "You  try  that,  C.  N.  Jus' 
try  it  once.  There'll  be  a  sudden  death  in  the  Morse 
family  if  you  do.  Mebbe  two.  Me,  I  'd  gun  you  both  for 
a  copper  cent.  Don't  fool  yourself  a  minute." 

"Kinda  foolish  talk,  West.  Don't  buy  you  anything. 
Guess  you  better  go  home  an'  cool  off,  had  n't  you? 
I'll  have  your  time  made  up  to-day,  unless  you  want 
your  check  right  now." 

The  broken  teeth  of  the  desperado  clicked  as  his  jaw 
clamped.  He  looked  from  the  smiling,  steady-eyed 
trader  to  the  brown-faced  youth  who  watched  the  scene 
with  such  cool,  alert  attention.  He  fought  with  a  wild, 
furious  impulse  in  himself  to  go  through  with  his  threat, 


C.  N.  MORSE  TURNS  OVER  A  LEAF    97 

to  clean  up  and  head  out  into  the  wilds.  But  some  sav 
ing  sense  of  prudence  held  his  hand.  C.  N.  Morse  was 
too  big  game  for  him. 

"To  hell  with  the  check,"  he  snarled,  and  swinging 
on  his  heel  jingled  out  of  the  office. 

The  nephew  spoke  first.  "You  got  rid  of  him  on 
purpose." 

"Looked  that  way  to  you,  did  it?"  the  uncle  asked 
in  his  usual  indirect  way. 

"Why?" 

"Guess  you'd  say  it  was  because  he  won't  fit  into 
the  new  policy  of  the  firm.  Guess  you'd  say  he'd  al 
ways  be  gettin'  us  into  trouble  with  his  overbearin* 
and  crooked  ways." 

"That's  true.  He  would." 

"Maybe  it  would  be  a  good  idee  to  watch  him  mighty 
close.  They  say  he 's  a  bad  hombre.  Might  be  unlucky 
for  any  one  he  got  the  drop  on." 

Tom  knew  he  was  being  warned.  "I'll  look  out  for 
him,"  he  promised. 

The  older  man  changed  the  subject  smilingly. 
"Here's  where  C.  N.  Morse  &  Company  turns  over  a 
leaf,  son.  No  more  business  gambles.  Legitimate  trade 
only.  That  the  idee  you're  figurin'  on  makin'  me  live 
up  to?" 

"Suits  me  if  it  does  you,"  Tom  answered  cheerfully. 
"But  where  do  I  come  in?  What's  my  job  in  the  firm? 
You'll  notice  I  have  n't  said  'Thanks'  yet." 

"You?"  C.  N.  gave  him  a  sly,  dry  smile.  "Oh,  all 
you  have  to  do  is  to  handle  our  business  north  of  the 
line  —  buy,  sell,  trade,  build  up  friendly  relations  with 


98  MAN-SIZE 

the  Indians  and  trappers,  keep  friendly  with  the  police, 
and  a  few  little  things  like  that." 

Tom  grinned. 

"Won't  have  a  thing  to  do,  will  I?" 


CHAPTER  XII 
TOM  DUCKS  TROUBLE 

To  Tom  Morse,  sitting  within  the  railed  space  that 
served  for  an  office  in  the  company  store  at  Faraway, 
came  a  light-stepping  youth  in  trim  boots,  scarlet 
jacket,  and  forage  cap  set  at  a  jaunty  angle. 

"'Lo,  Uncle  Sam,"  he  said,  saluting  gayly. 

"'Lo,  Johnnie  Canuck.  Where  you  been  for  a  year 
and  heaven  knows  how  many  months?" 

"Up  Peace  River,  after  Pierre  Poulette,  fellow  who 
killed  Buckskin  Jerry." 

Tom  took  in  Beresford's  lean  body,  a  gauntness  of 
the  boyish  face,  hollows  under  the  eyes  that  had  not 
been  there  when  first  they  had  met.  There  had  come  to 
him  whispers  of  the  long  trek  into  the  frozen  Lone 
Lands  made  by  the  officer  and  his  Indian  guide.  He 
could  guess  the  dark  and  dismal  winter  spent  by  the 
two  alone,  without  books,  without  the  comforts  of  life, 
far  from  any  other  human  being.  It  must  have  been  an 
experience  to  try  the  soul.  But  it  had  not  shaken  the 
Canadian's  blithe  joy  in  living. 

"Get  him?"  the  Montanan  asked. 

The  answer  he  could  guess.  The  North-West  Mounted 
always  brought  back  those  they  were  sent  for.  Already 
the  Force  was  building  up  the  tradition  that  made  them 
for  a  generation  rulers  of  half  a  continent. 

"Got  him."  Thus  briefly  the  red-coat  dismissed  an 
experience  that  had  taken  toll  of  his  vitality  greater  than 


100  MAN-SIZE 

five  years  of  civilized  existence.    "Been  back  a  week. 
Inspector  Crouch  sent  me  here  to  have  a  look-see." 

"At  what?  He  ain't  suspectin'  any  one  at  Faraway 
of  stretchin',  bendin',  or  bustin'  the  laws." 

Tom  cocked  a  merry  eye  at  his  visitor.  Rumor  had  it 
that  Faraway  was  a  cesspool  of  iniquity.  It  was  far 
from  the  border.  When  sheriffs  of  Montana  became  too 
active,  there  was  usually  an  influx  of  population  at  the 
post,  of  rough,  hard-eyed  men  who  crossed  the  line  and 
pushed  north  to  safety. 

"Seems  to  be.  You're  not  by  any  chance  lookin*  for 
trouble?" 

"  Duckin*  it,"  answered  Tom  promptly. 

The  officer  smiled  genially.  "It's  knocking  at  your 
door."  His  knuckles  rapped  on  the  desk. 

"  If  I  ever  bumped  into  a  Santa  Glaus  of  joy  —  '* 

"Oh,  thanks!"  Beresford  murmured. 

"  —  you  certainly  ain't  him.   Onload  your  grief." 

"The  theme  of  my  discourse  is  aborigines,  their  dis 
positions,  animadversions,  and  propensities,"  explained 
the  constable.  "According  to  the  latest  scientific  hy 
potheses,  the  metempsychosis  —  " 

Tom  threw  up  his  hands.  "Help!  Help!  I  never 
studied  geology  none.  Don't  know  this  hypotenuse 
you're  pow-wowin'  about  any  more  'n  my  paint  hawss 
does.  Come  again  in  one  syllables." 

"Noticed  any  trouble  among  the  Crees  lately  —  that 
is,  any  more  than  usual?" 

The  junior  partner  of  C.  N.  Morse  &  Company  con 
sidered.  "Why,  yes,  seems  to  me  I  have  —  heap  much 
swagger  and  noise,  plenty  rag-chewin'  and  tomahawk 
swingin'." 


TOM  DUCKS  TROUBLE 

"Why?" 

"Whiskey,  likely." 

"Where  do  they  get  it?" 

Tom  looked  at  the  soldier  quizzically.  "Your  guess 
is  good  as  mine,"  he  drawled. 

"I'm  guessing  West  and  Whaley." 

Morse  made  no  comment.  Bully  West  had  thrown  in 
his  fortune  with  Dug  Whaley,  a  gambler  who  had  drifted 
from  one  mining  camp  to  another  and  been  washed  by 
the  tide  of  circumstance  into  the  Northwest.  Ostensibly 
they  supplied  blankets,  guns,  food,  and  other  necessities 
to  the  tribes,  but  there  was  a  strong  suspicion  that  they 
made  their  profit  in  whiskey  smuggled  across  the  plains. 

"  But  to  guess  it  and  to  prove  it  are  different  proposi 
tions.  How  am  I  going  to  hang  it  on  them?  I  can't 
make  a  bally  fool  of  myself  by  prodding  around  in  their 
bales  and  boxes.  If  I  did  n't  find  anything  —  and  it'd 
be  a  long  shot  against  me  —  West  and  his  gang  would 
stick  their  tongues  in  their  cheeks  and  N.W.M.P.  stock 
would  shoot  down.  No,  I've  got  to  make  sure,  jump 
'em,  and  tie  'em  up  by  finding  the  goods  on  the  wagons." 

"Fat  chance,"  speculated  Tom. 

"That's  where  you  come  in." 

"Oh,  I  come  in  there,  do  I?  I  begin  to  hear  Old  Man 
Trouble  knockin'  at  my  door  like  you  promised.  Break 
it  kinda  easy.  Am  I  to  go  up  an'  ask  Bully  West  where 
he  keeps  his  fire-water  cached?  Or  what?" 

"  Yes.  Only  don't  mention  to  him  that  you  're  asking. 
Your  firm  and  his  trade  back  and  forth,  don't  they?" 

"Forth,  but  not  back.  When  they've  got  to  have 
some  goods  —  if  it's  neck  or  nothing  with  them  —  they 


102  MAN-SIZE 

buy  from  us.  We  don't  buy  from  them.  You  could  n't 
exactly  call  us  neighborly." 

Beresford  explained.  "West's  just  freighted  in  a 
cargo  of  goods.  I  can  guarantee  that  if  he  brought  any 
liquor  with  him  —  and  I've  good  reason  to  think  he 
did  —  it  has  n't  been  unloaded  yet.  To-morrow  the 
wagons  will  scatter.  I  can't  follow  all  of  'em.  If  I 
cinch  Mr.  West,  it's  got  to  be  to-night." 

"I  see.  You  want  me  to  give  you  my  blessin'.  I'll 
come  through  with  a  fine  big  large  one.  Go  to  it,  con 
stable.  Hogtie  West  with  proof.  Soak  him  good.  Send 
him  up  for  'steen  years.  You  got  my  sympathy  an' 
approval,  one  for  the  grief  you're  liable  to  bump  into, 
the  other  for  your  good  intentions." 

The  officer's  grin  had  a  touch  of  the  proverbial  Che 
shire  cat's  malice.  "  Glad  you  approve.  But  you  keep 
that  sympathy  for  yourself.  I  'm  asking  you  to  pull  the 
chestnut  out  of  the  fire  for  me.  You'd  better  look  out 
or  you'll  burn  your  paw." 

"Just  remember  I  ain't  promisin'  a  thing.  I'm  a 
respectable  business  man  now,  and,  as  I  said,  duckin* 
trouble." 

"Find  out  for  me  in  which  wagon  the  liquor  is. 
That 'sail  I  ask." 

"How  can  I  find  out?  I'm  no  mind  reader." 

"Drift  over  casually  and  offer  to  buy  goods.  Poke 
around  a  bit.  Keep  cases  on  'em.  Notice  the  wagons 
they  steer  you  away  from." 

Tom  thought  it  over  and  shook  his  head.  ,"No,  I 
don't  reckon  I  will." 

"Any  particular  reason?" 


TOM  DUCKS  TROUBLE  103 

"Don't  look  to  me  hardly  like  playin'  the  game.  I'm 
ferninst  West  every  turn  of  the  road.  He's  crooked  as  a 
dog's  hind  laig.  But  it  would  n't  be  right  square  for  me 
to  spy  on  him.  Different  with  you.  That's  what  you're 
paid  for.  You  're  out  to  run  him  down  any  way  you  can. 
He  knows  that.  It 's  a  game  of  hide  an'  go  seek  between 
you  an'  him.  Best  man  wins." 

The  red-coat  assented  at  once.  "Right  you  are. 
I'll  get  some  one  else."  He  rose  to  go.  "See  you  later 
maybe." 

Tom  nodded.  "Sorry  I  can't  oblige,  but  you  see  how 
it  is." 

"Quite.  I  ought  n't  to  have  asked  you." 

Beresford  strode  briskly  out  of  the  store. 

Through  the  window  Morse  saw  him  a  moment  later 
in  whispered  conversation  with  Onistah.  They  were 
standing  back  of  an  outlying  shed,  in  such  a  position 
that  they  could  not  be  seen  from  the  road. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  CONSTABLE  BORES  THROUGH 
DIFFICULTIES 

THE  early  Northern  dusk  was  falling  when  Beresford 
dropped  into  the  store  again.  Except  for  two  half- 
breeds  and  the  clerk  dickering  at  the  far  end  of  the 
building  over  half  a  dozen  silver  fox  furs  Morse  had  the 
place  to  himself. 

Yet  the  officer  took  the  precaution  to  lower  his  voice. 
"I  want  an  auger  and  a  wooden  plug  the  same  size. 
Get  'em  to  me  without  anybody  knowing  it." 

The  manager  of  the  C.  N.  Morse  &  Company  North 
ern  Stores  presently  shoved  across  the  counter  to  him 
a  gunny-sack  with  a  feed  of  oats.  "Want  it  charged  to 
the  Force,  I  reckon?" 

"Yes." 

"Say,  constable,  I  wancha  to  look  at  these  moccasins 
I'm  orderin'  for  the  Inspector.  Is  this  what  he  wants? 
Or  isn't  it?" 

Tom  led  the  way  into  his  office.  He  handed  the  shoe 
to  Beresford.  "What's  doin'?"  he  asked  swiftly,  be 
tween  sentences. 

The  soldier  inspected  the  footwear.  "About  right, 
I  'd  say.  Thought  you  'd  find  what  you  were  looking  for. 
A  fellow  usually  does  when  he  goes  at  it  real  earnest." 

The  eyes  in  the  brown  face  were  twinkling  merrily. 

"Findin'  the  goods  is  one  thing.  Gettin'  'em's  quite 
another,"  Tom  suggested. 


CONSTABLE  BORES  THROUGH      105 

The  voice  of  one  of  the  trappers  rose  in  protest.  "By 
gar,  it  iss  what  you  call  dirt  cheap.  I  make  you  a 
present.  Via!" 

"Got  to  bore  through  difficulties,"  Beresford  said. 
"Then  you're  liable  to  bump  into  disappointment. 
But  you  can't  ever  tell  till  you  try." 

His  friend  began  to  catch  the  drift  of  the  officer's 
purpose.  He  was  looking  for  a  liquor  shipment,  and  he 
had  bought  an  auger  to  bore  through  difficulties. 

Tom's  eyes  glowed.  "Come  over  to  the  storeroom  an' 
take  a  look  at  my  stock.  Want  you  to  see  I'm  gonna 
have  these  moccasins  made  from  good  material." 

They  kept  step  across  the  corral,  gay,  light-hearted 
sons  of  the  frontier,  both  hard  as  nails,  packed  muscles 
rippling  like  those  of  forest  panthers.  Their  years  added 
would  not  total  more  than  twoscore  and  five,  but  life 
had  taken  hold  of  them  young  and  trained  them  to  its 
purposes,  had  shot  them  through  and  through  with 
hardihood  and  endurance  and  the  cool  prevision  that 
forestalls  disaster. 

"I'm  in  on  this,"  the  Montanan  said. 

"Meaning?" 

"That  I  buy  chips,  take  a  hand,  sit  in,  deal  cards.'* 

The  level  gaze  of  the  police  officer  studied  him  specu- 
latively.  "Now  why  this  change  of  heart?" 

"You  get  me  wrong.  I'm  with  you  to  a  finish  in 
puttin'  West  and  Whaley  out  of  business.  They're  a 
hell-raisin'  outfit,  an'  this  country '11  be  well  rid  of  'em. 
Only  thing  is  I  wanta  play  my  cards  above  the  table. 
I  couldn't  spy  on  these  men.  Leastways,  it  didn't 
look  quite  square  to  me.  But  this  is  a  bronc  of  another 


106  MAN-SIZE 

color.  Lead  me  to  that  trouble  you  was  promisin'  a 
while  ago." 

Beresf ord  led  him  to  it,  by  way  of  a  rain-washed  gully, 
up  which  they  trod  their  devious  path  slowly  and  with 
out  noise.  From  the  gully  they  snaked  through  the  dry 
grass  to  a  small  ditch  that  had  been  built  to  drain  the 
camping-ground  during  spring  freshets.  This  wound 
into  the  midst  of  the  wagon  train  encampment. 

The  plainsmen  crept  along  the  dry  ditch  with  labori 
ous  care.  They  advanced  no  single  inch  without  first 
taking  care  to  move  aside  any  twig  the  snapping  of 
which  might  betray  them. 

From  the  beginning  of  the  adventure  until  its  climax 
no  word  was  spoken.  Beresf  ord  led,  the  trader  followed 
at  his  heels. 

The  voices  of  men  drifted  to  them  from  a  camp-fire 
in  the  shelter  of  the  wagons.  There  were,  Tom  guessed, 
about  four  of  them.  Their  words  came  clear  through  the 
velvet  night.  They  talked  the  casual  elemental  topics 
common  to  their  kind. 

There  was  a  moonlit  open  space  to  be  crossed.  The 
constable  took  it  swiftly  with  long  strides,  reached  a 
wagon,  and  dodged  under  it.  His  companion  held  to 
the  cover  of  the  ditch.  He  was  not  needed  closer. 

The  officer  lay  flat  on  his  back,  set  the  point  of  the 
auger  to  the  woodwork  of  the  bed,  and  began  to  turn. 
Circles  and  half-circles  of  shavings  flaked  out  and  fell 
upon  him.  He  worked  steadily.  Presently  the  resistance 
of  the  wood  ceased.  The  bit  had  eaten  its  way  through. 

Beresford  withdrew  the  tool  and  tried  again,  this 
time  a  few  inches  from  the  hole  he  had  made.  The 


CONSTABLE  BORES  THROUGH       107 

pressure  lessened  as  before,  but  in  a  second  or  two  the 
steel  took  a  fresh  hold.  The  handle  moved  slowly  and 
steadily. 

A  few  drops  of  moisture  dripped  down,  then  a  small 
stream.  The  constable  held  his  hand  under  this  and 
tasted  the  flow.  It  was  rum. 

Swiftly  he  withdrew  the  bit,  fitted  the  plug  into  the 
hole,  and  pushed  it  home. 

He  crawled  from  .under  the  wagon,  skirted  along  the 
far  side  of  it,  ran  to  the  next  white-topped  vehicle,  and 
plumped  out  upon  the  campers  with  a  short,  sharp 
word  of  command. 

"Up  with  your  hands!  Quick!" 

For  a  moment  the  surprised  quartette  were  too 
amazed  to  obey. 

"What  in  Halifax—?" 

"Shove  'em  up!"  came  the  crisp,  peremptory 
order. 

Eight  hands  wavered  skyward. 

"Is  this  a  hold-up  —  or  what?"  one  of  the  teamsters 
wanted  to  know  sulkily. 

"Call  it  whatever  you  like.  You  with  the  fur  cap 
hitch  up  the  mules  to  the  second  wagon.  Don't  make  a 
mistake  and  try  for  a  getaway.  You'll  be  a  dead 
smuggler." 

The  man  hesitated.   Was  this  red-coat  alone? 

Tom  strolled  out  of  the  ditch,  a  sawed-off  shotgun 
under  his  arm.  "I  judge  you  bored  through  your  diffi 
culties,  constable,"  he  said  cheerfully. 

"Through  the  bed  of  the  wagon  and  the  end  of  a 
rum  keg.  Stir  your  stumps,  gentlemen  of  the  whiskey- 


108  MAN-SIZE 

running  brigade.  We're  on  the  way  to  Fort  Edmonton 
if  it  suits  you." 

If  it  did  not  suit  them,  they  made  no  audible  protest 
of  disagreement.  Growls  were  their  only  comment 
when,  under  direction  of  Beresford,  the  Montanan 
stripped  them  of  their  weapons  and  kept  guard  on  the 
fur-capped  man  —  his  name  appeared  to  be  Lemoine  — 
while  the  latter  brought  the  mules  to  the  wagon  pointed 
out  by  the  officer. 

"Hook  'em,"  ordered  Morse  curtly. 

The  French-Indian  trapper  hitched  the  team  to  the 
wagon.  Presently  it  moved  beyond  the  circle  of  firelight 
into  the  darkness.  Morse  sat  beside  the  driver,  the 
short-barreled  weapon  across  his  knees.  Three  men 
walked  behind  the  wagon.  A  fourth,  in  the  uniform  of 
the  North- West  Mounted,  brought  up  the  rear  on 
horseback. 


CHAPTER  XIV 
SCARLET-COATS  IN  ACTION 

WHEN  Bully  West  discovered  that  such  part  of  the  cargo 
of  wet  goods  as  was  in  wagon  number  two  had  disap 
peared  and  along  with  it  the  four  mule-skinners,  his 
mind  jumped  to  an  instant  conclusion.  That  it  hap 
pened  to  be  the  wrong  one  was  natural  enough  to  his 
sulky,  suspicious  mind. 

"Goddlemighty,  they've  double-crossed  us,"  he 
swore  to  his  partner,  with  an  explosion  of  accompany 
ing  profanity.  "  Figure  on  cleanin'  up  on  the  goods  an' 
cuttin'  back  to  the  States.  Tha's  what  they  aim  to  do. 
Before  I  can  head  'em  off.  Me,  I  '11  show  'em  they  can't 
play  monkey  tricks  on  Bully  West." 

This  explanation  did  not  satisfy  Whaley.  The  straight 
black  line  of  the  brows  above  the  cold  eyes  met  in  frown 
ing  thought. 

"I've  got  a  hunch  you're  barkin'  up  the  wrong  tree," 
he  lisped  with  a  shrug  of  shoulders. 

Voice  and  gesture  were  surprising  in  that  they  were 
expressions  of  this  personality  totally  unexpected. 
Both  were  almost  womanlike  in  their  delicacy.  They 
suggested  the  purr  and  soft  padding  of  a  cat,  an  odd 
contradiction  to  the  white,  bloodless  face  with  the  inky 
brows.  The  eyes  of  "Poker"  Whaley  could  throw  fear 
into  the  most  reckless  bull-whacker  on  the  border. 
They  held  fascinating  and  sinister  possibilities  of 
evil. 


110  MAN-SIZE 

"Soon  see.  We'll  hit  the  trail  right  away  after  them," 
Bully  replied. 

Whaley's  thin  lip  curled.  He  looked  at  West  as 
though  he  read  to  the  bottom  of  that  shallow  mind  and 
meant  to  make  the  most  of  his  knowledge. 

"Yes,"  he  murmured,  as  though  to  himself.  "Some 
one  ought  to  stay  with  the  rest  of  the  outfit,  but  I 
reckon  I  'd  better  go  along.  Likely  you  could  n't  handle 
all  of  'em  if  they  showed  fight." 

West's  answer  was  a  roar  of  outraged  vanity.  "Me! 
Not  round  up  them  tame  sheep.  I  '11  drive  'em  back  with 
their  tongues  hangin'  out.  Understand?" 

At  break  of  day  he  was  in  the  saddle.  An  experienced 
trailer,  West  found  no  difficulty  in  following  the  wagon 
tracks.  No  attempt  had  been  made  to  cover  the  flight. 
The  whiskey -runner  could  trace  at  a  road  gait  the  nar 
row  tracks  along  the  winding  road. 

The  country  through  which  he  traveled  was  the 
border-land  between  the  plains  and  the  great  forests 
that  rolled  in  unbroken  stretch  to  the  frozen  North. 
Sometimes  he  rode  over  undulating  prairie.  Again  he 
moved  through  strips  of  woodland  or  skirted  beautiful 
lakes  from  the  reedy  edges  of  which  ducks  or  geese  rose 
whirring  at  his  approach.  A  pair  of  coyotes  took  one 
long  look  at  him  and  skulked  into  a  ravine.  Once  a 
great  moose  started  from  a  thicket  of  willows  and  gal 
loped  over  a  hill. 

West  heeded  none  of  this.  No  joy  touched  him  as  he 
breasted  summits  and  looked  down  on  wide  sweeps  of 
forest  and  rippling  water.  The  tracks  of  the  wheel  rims 
engaged  entirely  his  sulky,  lowering  gaze.  If  the  brut- 


SCARLET-COATS  IN  ACTION        111 

ish  face  reflected  his  thoughts,  they  must  have  been 
far  from  pleasant  ones. 

The  sun  flooded  the  landscape,  climbed  the  sky  vault, 
slid  toward  the  horizon.  Dusk  found  him  at  the  edge 
of  a  wooded  lake. 

He  looked  across  and  gave  a  subdued  whoop  of 
triumph.  From  the  timber  on  the  opposite  shore  came 
a  tenuous  smoke  skein.  A  man  came  to  the  water  with 
a  bucket,  filled  it,  and  disappeared  in  the  woods.  Bully 
West  knew  he  had  caught  up  with  those  he  was 
tracking. 

The  smuggler  circled  the  lower  end  of  the  lake  and 
rode  through  the  timber  toward  the  smoke.  At  a  safe 
distance  he  dismounted,  tied  the  horse  to  a  young  pine, 
and  carefully  examined  his  rifle.  Very  cautiously  he 
stalked  the  camp,  moving  toward  it  with  the  skill  and 
the  stealth  of  a  Sarcee  scout. 

Camp  had  been  pitched  in  a  small  open  space  sur 
rounded  by  bushes.  Through  the  thicket,  on  the  south 
side,  he  picked  a  way,  pushing  away  each  sapling  and 
weed  noiselessly  to  make  room  for  the  passage  of  his 
huge  body.  For  such  a  bulk  of  a  figure  he  moved 
lightly.  Twice  he  stopped  by  reason  of  the  crackle  of  a 
snapping  twig,  but  no  sign  of  alarm  came  from  his  prey. 

They  sat  hunched  —  the  four  of  them  —  before  a 
blazing  log  fire,  squatting  on  their  heels  in  the  comfort 
able  fashion  of  the  outdoors  man  the  world  over.  Their 
talk  was  fragmentary.  None  gave  any  sign  of  alertness 
toward  any  possible  approaching  danger. 

No  longer  wary,  West  broke  through  the  last  of  the 
bushes  and  straddled  into  the  open. 


112  MAN-SIZE 

"Well,  boys,  hope  you  got  some  grub  left  for  yore 
boss,"  he  jeered,  triumph  riding  voice  and  manner 
heavily. 

He  waited  for  the  startled  dismay  he  expected.  None 
came.  The  drama  of  the  moment  did  not  meet  his 
expectation.  The  teamsters  looked  at  him,  sullenly, 
without  visible  fear  or  amazement.  None  of  them  rose 
or  spoke. 

Sultry  anger  began  to  burn  in  West's  eyes.  "Thought 
you'd  slip  one  over  on  the  old  man,  eh?  Thought  you 
could  put  over  a  raw  steal  an'  get  away  with  it.  Well, 
lemme  tell  you  where  you  get  off  at.  I  'm  gonna  whale 
every  last  one  of  you  to  a  frazzle.  With  a  big  club.  An' 
I'm  gonna  drive  you  back  to  Faraway  like  a  bunch  of 
whipped  curs.  Understand?" 

Still  they  said  nothing.  It  began  to  penetrate  the 
thick  skull  of  the  trader  that  there  was  something  un 
natural  about  their  crouched  silence.  Why  did  n't 
they  try  to  explain?  Or  make  a  break  for  a  get 
away? 

He  could  think  of  nothing  better  to  say,  after  a  volley 
of  curses,  than  to  repeat  his  threat.  "A  thunderin'  good 
wallopin',  first  off.  Then  we  hit  the  trail  together,  you- 
all  an'  me." 

From  out  of  the  bushes  behind  him  a  voice  came. 
"That  last's  a  good  prophecy,  Mr.  West.  It'll  be  just 
as  you  say." 

The  big  fellow  wheeled,  the  rifle  jumping  to  his  shoul 
der.  Instantly  he  knew  he  had  been  tricked,  led  into 
a  trap.  They  must  have  heard  him  coming,  whoever 
they  were,  and  left  his  own  men  for  bait. 


SCARLET-COATS  IN  ACTION        113 

From  the  other  side  two  streaks  of  scarlet  launched 
themselves  at  him.  West  turned  to  meet  them.  A  third 
flash  of  red  dived  for  his  knees.  He  went  down  as 
though  hit  by  a  battering-ram. 

But  not  to  stay  down.  The  huge  gorilla-shaped  figure 
struggled  to  its  feet,  fighting  desperately  to  throw  off 
the  three  red-coats  long  enough  to  drag  out  a  revolver. 
He  was  like  a  bear  surrounded  by  leaping  dogs.  No 
sooner  had  he  buffeted  one  away  than  the  others  were 
dragging  him  down.  Try  as  he  would,  he  could  not  get 
set.  The  attackers  always  staggered  him  before  he 
could  quite  free  himself  for  action.  They  swarmed  all 
over  him,  fought  close  to  avoid  his  sweeping  lunges, 
hauled  him  to  his  knees  by  sheer  weight  of  the  pack. 

Lemoine  flung  one  swift  look  around  and  saw  that  his 
captors  were  very  busy.  Now  if  ever  was  the  time  to 
take  a  hand  in  the  melee.  Swiftly  he  rose.  He  spoke 
a  hurried  word  in  French. 

"One  moment,  s'il  vous  plait."  From  the  bushes  an 
other  man  had  emerged,  one  not  in  uniform.  Lemoine 
had  forgotten  him.  "Not  your  fight.  Better  keep 
out,"  he  advised,  and  pointed  the  suggestion  with  a 
short-barreled  shotgun. 

The  trapper  looked  at  him.  "Is  it  that  this  iss  your 
fight,  Mistair  Morse?"  he  demanded. 

"Fair  enough.   I'll  keep  out  too." 

The  soldiers  had  West  down  by  this  time.  They  were 
struggling  to  handcuff  him.  He  fought  furiously,  his 
great  arms  and  legs  threshing  about  like  flails.  Not 
till  he  had  worn  himself  out  could  they  pinion 
him. 


114  MAN-SIZE 

Beresford  rose  at  last,  the  job  done.  His  coat  was 
ripped  almost  from  one  shoulder.  "My  word,  he's  a 
whale  of  an  animal,"  he  panted.  "If  I  had  n't  chanced 
to  meet  you  boys  he'd  have  eaten  me  alive." 

The  big  smuggler  struggled  for  breath.  When  at  last 
he  found  words,  it  was  for  furious  and  horrible  curses. 

Not  till  hours  later  did  he  get  as  far  as  a  plain  question. 
"What  does  this  mean?  Where  are  you  taking  me,  you 
damned  spies?"  he  roared. 

Beresford  politely  gave  him  information.  "To  the 
penitentiary,  I  hope,  Mr.  West,  for  breaking  Her 
Majesty's  revenue  laws." 


CHAPTER  XV 
KISSING  DAY 

ALL  week  Jessie  and  her  foster-mother  Matapi-Koma 
had  been  busy  cooking  and  baking  for  the  great  occa 
sion.  Fergus  had  brought  in  a  sack  full  of  cottontails 
and  two  skunks.  To  these  his  father  had  added  the 
smoked  hindquarters  of  a  young  buffalo,  half  a  barrel 
of  dried  fish,  and  fifty  pounds  of  pemmican.  For  Angus 
liked  to  dispense  hospitality  in  feudal  fashion. 

Ever  since  Jessie  had  opened  her  eyes  at  the  sound  of 
Matapi-Koma's  "Koos  koos  kwa"  (Wake  up!),  in  the 
pre-dawn  darkness  of  the  wintry  Northern  morn,  she 
had  heard  the  crunch  of  snow  beneath  the  webs  of  the 
footmen  and  the  runners  of  the  sleds.  For  both  full- 
blood  Crees  and  half-breeds  were  pouring  into  Faraway 
to  take  part  in  the  festivities  of  Ooche-me-gou-kesigow 
(Kissing  Day). 

The  traders  at  the  post  and  their  families  would  join 
in  the  revels.  With  the  exception  of  Morse,  they  had 
all  taken  Indian  wives,  in  the  loose  marriage  of  the 
country,  and  for  both  business  and  family  reasons  they 
maintained  a  close  relationship  with  the  natives.  Most 
of  their  children  used  the  mother  tongue,  though  they 
could  make  shift  to  express  themselves  in  English.  In 
this  respect  as  in  others  the  younger  McRaes  were 
superior.  They  talked  English  well.  They  could  read 
and  write.  Their  father  had  instilled  in  them  a  rever 
ence  for  the  Scriptures  and  some  knowledge  of  both  the 


116  MAN-SIZE 

Old  and  New  Testaments.  It  was  his  habit  to  hold 
family  prayers  every  evening.  Usually  half  a  dozen 
guests  were  present  at  these  services  in  addition  to  his 
immediate  household. 

With  the  Indians  came  their  dogs,  wolfish  creatures, 
prick-eared  and  sharp-muzzled,  with  straight,  bristling 
hair.  It  was  twenty  below  zero,  but  the  gaunt  animals 
neither  sought  nor  were  given  shelter.  They  roamed 
about  in  front  of  the  fort  stockade,  snapping  at  each 
other  or  galloping  off  on  rabbit  hunts  through  the 
timber. 

The  custom  was  that  on  this  day  the  braves  of  the 
tribe  kissed  every  woman  they  met  in  token  of  friend 
ship  and  good- will.  To  fail  of  saluting  one,  young  or 
old,  was  a  breach  of  good  manners.  Since  daybreak  they 
had  been  marching  in  to  Angus  McRae's  house  and 
gravely  kissing  his  wife  and  daughter. 

Jessie  did  not  like  it.  She  was  a  fastidious  young 
person.  But  she  could  not  escape  without  mortally 
offending  the  solemn-eyed  warriors  who  offered  this 
evidence  of  their  esteem.  As  much  as  possible  she  con 
trived  to  be  busy  upstairs,  but  at  least  a  dozen  times  she 
was  fairly  cornered  and  made  the  best  of  it. 

At  dinner  she  and  the  other  women  of  the  fort  waited 
on  their  guests  and  watched  prodigious  quantities  of 
food  disappear  rapidly.  When  the  meal  was  ended,  the 
dancing  began.  The  Crees  shuffled  around  in  a  circle, 
hopping  from  one  foot  to  the  other  in  time  to  the  beat 
ing  of  a  skin  drum.  The  half-breeds  and  whites  danced 
the  jigs  and  reels  the  former  had  brought  with  them 
from  the  Red  River  country.  They  took  the  floor  in 


KISSING  DAY  117 

couples.  The  men  did  double-shuffles  and  cut  pigeon 
wings,  moving  faster  and  faster  as  the  fiddler  quickened 
the  tune  till  they  gave  up  at  last  exhausted.  Their 
partners  performed  as  vigorously,  the  moccasined 
feet  twinkling  in  and  out  so  fast  that  the  beads 
flashed. 

Because  it  was  the  largest  building  hi  the  place,  the 
dance  was  held  in  the  C.  N.  Morse  &  Company  store. 
From  behind  the  counter  Jessie  applauded  the  per 
formers.  She  did  not  care  to  take  part  herself.  The 
years  she  had  spent  at  school  had  given  her  a  certain 
dignity. 

A  flash  of  scarlet  caught  her  eye.  Two  troopers  of 
the  Mounted  Police  had  come  into  the  room  and  one 
of  them  was  taking  off  his  fur  overcoat.  The  trim,  lean- 
flanked  figure  and  close-cropped,  curly  head  she  recog 
nized  at  once  with  quickened  pulse.  When  Winthrop 
Beresford  came  into  her  neighborhood,  Jessie  McRae's 
cheek  always  flew  a  flag  of  greeting. 

A  squaw  came  up  to  the  young  soldier  and  offered 
innocently  her  face  for  a  kiss. 

Beresford  knew  the  tribal  custom.  It  was  his  business 
to  help  establish  friendly  relations  between  the  Mounted 
and  the  natives.  He  kissed  the  wrinkled  cheek  gallantly. 
A  second  dusky  lady  shuffled  forward,  and  after  her  a 
third.  The  constable  did  his  duty. 

His  roving  eye  caught  Jessie's,  and  found  an  imp  of 
mischief  dancing  there.  She  was  enjoying  the  predica 
ment  in  which  he  found  himself.  Out  of  the  tail  of  that 
same  eye  he  discovered  that  two  more  flat-footed 
squaws  were  headed  in  his  direction. 


118  MAN-SIZE 

He  moved  briskly  across  the  floor  to  the  counter, 
vaulted  it,  and  stood  beside  Jessie.  She  was  still  laugh 
ing  at  him. 

"You're  afraid,"  she  challenged.    "You  ran  away." 

A  little  devil  of  adventurous  mirth  was  blown  to 
flame  in  him.  "I  saw  another  lady,  lonely  and  unkissed. 
The  Force  answers  every  call  of  distress." 

Her  chin  tilted  ever  so  little  as  she  answered  swiftly. 

"He  who  will  not  when  he  may, 
When  he  will  he  shall  have  nay." 

Before  she  had  more  than  time  to  guess  that  he  would 
really  dare,  the  officer  leaned  forward  and  kissed  the 
girl's  dusky  cheek. 

The  color  flamed  into  it.  Jessie  flung  a  quick,  startled 
look  at  him. 

"  Kissing  Day,  Sleeping  Dawn,"  he  said,  smiling. 

Instantly  she  followed  his  lead.  "  Sleeping  Dawn 
hopes  that  the  Great  Spirit  will  give  to  the  soldier  of  the 
Great  Mother  across  the  seas  many  happy  kissing  days 
in  his  life." 

"And  to  you.   Will  you  dance  with  me?" 

"Not  to-day,  thank  you.   I  don't  jig  in  public." 

"I  was  speaking  to  Miss  McRae  and  not  to  Sleeping 
Dawn,  and  I  was  asking  her  to  waltz  with  me." 

She  accepted  him  as  a  partner  and  they  took  the  floor. 
The  other  dancers  by  tacit  consent  stepped  back  to 
watch  this  new  step,  so  rhythmic,  light,  and  graceful. 
It  shocked  a  little  their  sense  of  fitness  that  the  man's 
arm  should  enfold  the  maiden,  but  they  were  full  of 
lively  curiosity  to  see  how  the  dance  was  done. 


KISSING  DAY  119 

A  novel  excitement  pulsed  through  the  girl's  veins. 
It  was  not  the  kiss  alone,  though  that  had  something 
to  do  with  the  exhilaration  that  flooded  her.  Formally 
his  kiss  had  meant  only  a  recognition  of  the  day.  Actu 
ally  it  had  held  for  both  of  them  a  more  personal  signifi 
cance,  the  swift  outreach  of  youth  to  youth.  But  the 
dance  was  an  escape.  She  had  learned  at  Winnipeg  the 
waltz  of  the  white  race.  No  other  girl  at  Faraway  knew 
the  step.  She  chose  to  think  that  the  constable  had 
asked  her  because  this  stressed  the  predominance 
of  her  father's  blood  in  her.  It  was  a  symbol  to  all 
present  that  the  ways  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  were  her 
ways. 

She  had  the  light,  straight  figure,  the  sense  of 
rhythm,  the  instinctively  instant  response  of  the  born 
waltzer.  As  she  glided  over  the  floor  in  the  arms  of 
Beresford,  the  girl  knew  pure  happiness.  Not  till  he 
was  leading  her  back  to  the  counter  did  she  wake 
from  the  spell  the  music  and  motion  had  woven  over 
her. 

A  pair  of  cold  eyes  in  a  white,  bloodless  face  watched 
her  beneath  thin  black  brows.  A  shock  ran  through  her, 
as  though  she  had  been  drenched  with  icy  water.  She 
shivered.  There  was  a  sinister  menace  in  that  steady, 
level  gaze.  More  than  once  she  had  felt  it.  Deep  in 
her  heart  she  knew,  from  the  world-old  experience  of 
her  sex,  that  the  man  desired  her,  that  he  was  biding 
his  time  with  the  patience  and  the  ruthlessness  of  a 
panther.  "Poker"  Whaley  had  in  him  a  power  of  dan 
gerous  evil  notable  in  a  country  where  bad  men  were 
not  scarce. 


120  MAN-SIZE 

The  officer  whispered  news  to  Jessie.  "Bully  West 
broke  jail  two  weeks  ago.  He  killed  a  guard.  We're 
here  looking  for  him." 

"He  has  n't  been  here.  At  least  I  have  n't  heard  it," 
she  answered  hurriedly. 

For  Whaley,  in  his  slow,  feline  fashion,  was  moving 
toward  them. 

Bluntly  the  gambler  claimed  his  right.  "Ooche-me- 
gou-kesigow,"  he  said. 

The  girl  shook  her  head.  "Are  you  a  Cree,  Mr. 
Whaley?" 

For  that  he  had  an  answer.    "Is  Beresford?" 

"Mr.  Beresford  is  a  stranger.  He  did  n't  know  the 
custom  —  that  it  does  n't  apply  to  me  except  with 
Indians.  I  was  taken  by  surprise." 

Whaley  was  a  man  of  parts.  He  had  been  educated 
for  a  priest,  but  had  kicked  over  the  traces.  There  was 
in  him  too  much  of  the  Lucifer  for  the  narrow  trail  the 
father  of  a  parish  must  follow. 

He  bowed.  "Then  I  must  content  myself  with  a 
dance." 

Jessie  hesitated.  It  was  known  that  he  was  a  liber 
tine.  The  devotion  of  his  young  Cree  wife  was  repaid 
with  sneers  and  the  whiplash.  But  he  was  an  ill  man  to 
make  an  enemy  of.  For  her  family's  sake  rather  than 
her  own  she  yielded  reluctantly. 

Though  a  heavy-set  man,  he  was  an  excellent 
waltzer.  He  moved  evenly  and  powerfully.  But  in  the 
girl's  heart  resentment  flamed.  She  knew  he  was  holding 
her  too  close  to  him,  taking  advantage  of  her  modesty 
in  a  way  she  could  not  escape  without  public  protest. 


KISSING  DAY 

"I'm  faint,"  she  told  him  after  they  had  danced  a 
few  minutes. 

"Oh,  you'll  be  all  right,"  he  said,  still  swinging  her  to 
the  music. 

She  stopped.  "No,  I've  had  enough."  Jessie  had 
caught  sight  of  her  brother  Fergus  at  the  other  end  of 
the  room.  She  joined  him.  Tom  Morse  was  standing 
by  his  side. 

Whaley  nodded  indifferently  toward  the  men  and 
smiled  at  Jessie,  but  that  cold  lip  smile  showed  neither 
warmth  nor  friendliness.  "We'll  dance  again  —  many 
times,"  he  said. 

The  girl's  eyes  flashed.  "We'll  have  to  ask  Mrs. 
Whaley  about  that.  I  don't  see  her  here  to-night.  I 
hope  she's  quite  well." 

It  was  impossible  to  tell  from  the  chill,  expressionless 
face  of  the  squaw-man  whether  her  barb  had  stung  or 
not.  "She's  where  she  belongs,  at  home  in  the  kitchen. 
It's  her  business  to  be  well.  I  reckon  she  is.  I  don't 
ask  her." 

"You're  not  a  demonstrative  husband,  then?" 

"Husband!"  He  shrugged  his  shoulders  insolently. 
"Oh,  well!  What's  in  a  name?" 

She  knew  the  convenient  code  of  his  kind.  They  took 
to  themselves  Indian  wives,  with  or  without  some  form 
of  marriage  ceremony,  and  flung  them  aside  when  they 
grew  tired  of  the  tie  or  found  it  galling.  There  was  an 
other  kind  of  squaw-man,  the  type  represented  by  her 
father.  He  had  joined  his  life  to  that  of  Matapi-Koma 
for  better  or  worse  until  such  time  as  death  should 
separate  them. 


1*2  MAN-SIZE 

In  Jessie's  bosom  a  generous  indignation  burned. 
There  was  a  reason  why  just  now  Whaley  should  give 
his  wife  much  care  and  affection.  She  turned  her  shoul 
der  and  began  to  talk  with  Fergus  and  Tom  Morse, 
definitely  excluding  the  gambler  from  the  conversation. 

He  was  not  one  to  be  embarrassed  by  a  snub.  He 
held  his  ground,  narrowed  eyes  watching  her  with  the 
vigilant  patience  of  the  panther  he  sometimes  made  her 
think  of.  Presently  he  forced  a  reentry. 

"What's  this  I  hear  about  Bully  West  escaping  from 
jail?" 

Fergus  answered.  "Two-three  weeks  ago.  Killed  a 
guard,  they  say.  He  was  headin5  west  an*  north  last 
word  they  had  of  him." 

All  of  them  were  thinking  the  same  thing,  that  the 
man  would  reach  Faraway  if  he  could,  lie  hidden  till 
he  had  rustled  an  outfit,  then  strike  out  with  a  dog  team 
deeper  into  the  Lone  Lands. 

"Here's  wishin'  him  luck,"  his  partner  said  coolly. 

"All  the  luck  he  deserves,"  amended  Morse  quietly. 

"You  can't  keep  a  good  man  down,"  WTialey  boasted, 
looking  straight  at  the  other  Indian  trader.  "I 
wouldn't  wonder  but  what  he'll  pay  a  few  debts  when 
he  gets  here." 

Tom  smiled  and  offered  another  suggestion.  "If  he 
gets  here  and  has  time.  He'll  have  to  hurry." 

His  gaze  shifted  across  the  room  to  Beresford,  alert, 
gay,  indomitable,  and  as  implacable  as  fate. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
A  BUSINESS  DEAL 

It  was  thirty  below  zero.  The  packed  snow  crunched 
under  the  feet  of  Morse  as  he  moved  down  what  served 
Faraway  for  a  main  street.  The  clock  in  the  store  regis 
tered  mid-afternoon,  but  within  a  few  minutes  the  sub- 
Arctic  sun  would  set,  night  would  fall,  and  aurora  lights 
would  glow  in  the  west. 

Four  false  suns  were  visible  around  the  true  one,  the 
whole  forming  a  cross  of  five  orbs.  Each  of  these  swam 
in  perpendicular  segments  of  a  circle  of  prismatic  colors. 
Even  as  the  young  man  looked,  the  lowest  of  the  cluster 
lights  plunged  out  of  sight.  By  the  time  he  had  reached 
the  McRae  house,  darkness  hung  over  the  white  and 
frozen  land. 

Jessie  opened  the  door  to  his  knock  and  led  him  into 
the  living-room  of  the  family,  where  also  the  trapper's 
household  ate  and  Fergus  slept.  It  was  a  rough  enough 
place,  with  its  mud-chinked  log  walls  and  its  floor  of 
whipsawed  lumber.  But  directly  opposite  the  door  was 
a  log-piled  hearth  that  radiated  comfort  and  cheer 
fulness.  Buffalo  robes  served  as  rugs  and  upon  the  walls 
had  been  hung  furs  of  silver  fox,  timber  wolves,  mink, 
and  beaver.  On  a  shelf  was  a  small  library  of  not  more 
than  twenty-five  books,  but  they  were  ones  that  only  a 
lover  of  good  reading  would  have  chosen.  Shakespeare 
and  Burns  held  honored  places  there.  Scott's  poems 
and  three  or  four  of  his  novels  were  in  the  collection.  In 


124  MAN-SIZE 

worn  leather  bindings  were  "Tristram  Shandy,"  and 
Smollett's  "Complete  History  of  England."  Bunyan's 
"Pilgrim's  Progress"  shouldered  Butler's  "Hudibras" 
and  Baxter's  "The  Saint's  Everlasting  Rest."  Into 
this  choice  company  one  frivolous  modern  novel  had 
stolen  its  way.  "Nicholas  Nickleby"  had  been  brought 
from  Winnipeg  by  Jessie  when  she  returned  from 
school.  The  girl  had  read  them  all  from  cover  to  cover, 
most  of  them  many  times.  Angus  too  knew  them  all, 
with  the  exception  of  the  upstart  "storybook"  written 
by  a  London  newspaper  man  of  whom  he  had  never 
before  heard. 

"I'm  alone,"  Jessie  explained.  "Father  and  Fergus 
have  gone  out  to  the  traps.  They'll  not  be  back  till 
to-morrow.  Mother's  with  Mrs.  Whaley." 

Tom  knew  that  the  trader's  wife  was  not  well.  She 
was  expecting  to  be  confined  in  a  few  weeks. 

He  was  embarrassed  at  being  alone  with  the  girl  in 
side  the  walls  of  a  house.  His  relations  with  Angus  Mc- 
Rae  reached  civility,  but  not  cordiality.  The  stern  old 
Scotchman  had  never  invited  him  to  drop  in  and  call. 
He  resented  the  fact  that  through  the  instrumentality 
of  Morse  he  had  been  forced  to  horsewhip  the  lass  he 
loved,  and  the  trader  knew  he  was  not  forgiven  his 
share  in  the  episode  and  probably  never  would  be.  Now 
Tom  had  come  only  because  a  matter  of  business  had  to 
be  settled  one  way  or  the  other  at  once. 

"Blandoine  is  leavin'  for  Whoop-Up  in  the  mornin'. 
I  came  to  see  your  father  about  those  robes.  If  we  buy, 
it'll  have  to  be  now.  I  can  send  'em  down  with  Blan 
doine,"  he  explained. 


A  BUSINESS  DEAL 

She  nodded,  briskly.  "Father  said  you  could  have 
them  at  your  price  if  you  '11  pay  what  he  asked  for  those 
not  split.  They're  good  hides  —  cows  and  young  bulls.1 

"  It 's  a  deal,"  the  fur-trader  said  promptly.  "  Glad  to 
get  'em,  though  I  'm  payin'  all  I  can  afford  for  the  split 
ones." 

"I'll  get  the  key  to  the  storehouse,"  Jessie  said. 

She  walked  out  of  the  room  with  the  springy,  feather- 
footed  step  that  distinguished  her  among  all  the  women 
that  he  knew.  In  a  few  moments  she  was  back.  Instead 
of  giving  him  the  key,  she  put  it  down  on  the  table  near 
his  hand. 

Beneath  the  tan  the  dark  blood  beat  into  his  face. 
He  knew  she  had  done  this  in  order  not  to  run  the  risk 
of  touching  him. 

For  a  long  moment  his  gaze  gripped  and  held  her. 
Between  them  passed  speech  without  words.  His  eyes 
asked  if  he  were  outside  the  pale  completely,  if  he  could 
never  wipe  out  the  memory  of  that  first  cruel  meeting. 
Hers  answered  proudly  that,  half-breed  though  she  was, 
he  was  to  her  only  a  wolfer,  of  less  interest  than  Black, 
the  leader  of  her  father's  dog  train. 

He  picked  up  the  key  and  left,  wild  thoughts  whirling 
through  his  mind.  He  loved  her.  Of  what  use  was  it 
trying  longer  to  disguise  it  from  himself.  Of  the  inferior 
blood  she  might  be,  yet  his  whole  being  went  out  to  her 

1  A  split  robe  was  one  cut  down  the  middle  and  sewn  together  with  sinews. 
The  ones  skinned  from  the  animal  in  a  single  piece  were  much  more  valuable, 
but  the  native  women  usually  prepared  the  hides  the  other  way  because  of 
the  weight  in  handling.  One  of  the  reasons  the  Indians  gave  the  mission 
aries  in  favor  of  polygamy  was  that  one  wife  could  not  dress  a  buffalo  robe 
without  assistance.  The  braves  themselves  did  not  condescend  to  menial 
labor  of  this  kind.  (W.  M.  R.) 


126  MAN-SIZE 

in  deep  desire.  He  wanted  her  for  his  mate.  He  craved 
her  in  every  fiber  of  his  clean,  passionate  manhood,  as 
he  had  never  before  longed  for  a  woman  in  his  life. 
And  she  hated  him  —  hated  him  with  all  the  blazing 
scorn  of  a  young  proud  soul  whose  fine  body  had  endured 
degradation  on  his  account.  He  was  a  leper,  to  be 
classed  with  Bully  West. 

Nor  did  he  blame  her.  How  could  she  feel  otherwise 
and  hold  her  self-respect.  The  irony  of  it  brought  a 
bitter  smile  to  his  lips.  If  she  only  knew  it,  the  years 
would  avenge  her  a  hundredfold.  For  he  had  cut  him 
self  off  from  even  the  chance  of  the  joy  that  might  have 
been  his. 

In  the  sky  an  aurora  flashed  with  scintillating  splen 
dor.  The  heavens  were  aglow  with  ever-changing  bars 
and  columns  of  colored  fire. 

Morse  did  not  know  it.  Not  till  he  had  passed  a  dozen 
steps  beyond  a  man  in  heavy  furs  did  his  mind  register 
recognition  of  him  as  Whaley.  He  did  not  even  wonder 
what  business  was  taking  the  gambler  toward  Angus 
McRae's  house. 

Business  obtruded  its  claims.  He  arranged  with  Blan- 
doine  to  take  the  robes  out  with  him  and  walked  back 
to  the  McRae  storehouse.  It  adjoined  the  large  log 
cabin  where  the  Scotchman  and  his  family  lived. 

Blandoine  and  he  went  over  the  robes  carefully  in 
order  that  there  should  be  no  mistake  as  to  which  ones 
the  trainmaster  took.  This  done,  Morse  locked  the  door 
and  handed  the  key  to  his  companion. 

To  him  there  was  borne  the  sound  of  voices  —  one  low 
and  deep,  the  other  swift  and  high.  He  caught  no  words, 


A  BUSINESS  DEAL  127 

but  he  became  aware  that  a  queer  excitement  tingled 
through  his  veins.  At  the  roots  of  his  hair  there  was  an 
odd,  prickling  sensation.  He  could  give  himself  no 
reason,  but  some  instinct  of  danger  rang  in  him  like  a 
bell.  The  low  bass  and  the  light  high  treble  —  they 
reached  him  alternately,  cutting  into  each  other,  over 
riding  each  other,  clashing  in  agitated  dissent. 

Then  —  a  shrill  scream  for  help ! 

Morse  could  never  afterward  remember  opening  the 
door  of  the  log  house.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  burst 
through  it  like  a  battering-ram,  took  the  kitchen  in 
two  strides,  and  hurled  himself  against  the  sturdy  home 
made  door  which  led  into  the  living-room. 

This  checked  him,  for  some  one  had  slid  into  its 
socket  the  bar  used  as  a  bolt.  He  looked  around  the 
kitchen  and  found  in  one  swift  glance  what  he  wanted. 
It  was  a  large  back  log  for  the  fireplace. 

With  this  held  at  full  length  under  his  arm  he  crashed 
forward.  The  wood  splintered.  He  charged  again, 
incited  by  a  second  call  for  succor.  This  time  his  attack 
dashed  the  bolt  and  socket  from  their  place.  Morse 
stumbled  into  the  room  like  a  drunken  man. 


CHAPTER  XVII 
A  BOARD  CREAKS 

AFTER  Morse  had  closed  the  door,  Jessie  listened  until 
the  crisp  crunch  of  his  footsteps  had  died  away.  She 
subdued  an  impulse  to  call  him  back  and  put  into  words 
her  quarrel  against  him. 

From  the  table  she  picked  up  a  gun-cover  of  moose 
leather  she  was  making  and  moved  to  the  fireplace. 
Automatically  her  fingers  fitted  into  place  a  fringe  of  red 
cloth.  (This  had  been  cut  from  an  old  petticoat,  but 
the  source  of  the  decoration  would  remain  a  secret, 
not  on  any  account  to  be  made  known  to  him  who  was 
to  receive  the  gift.)  Usually  her  hands  were  busy  ones, 
but  now  they  fell  away  from  the  work  listlessly. 

The  pine  logs  crackled,  lighting  one  end  of  the  room 
and  filling  the  air  with  aromatic  pungency.  As  she 
gazed  into  the  red  coals  her  mind  was  active. 

She  knew  that  her  scorn  of  the  fur-trader  was  a  fraud. 
Into  her  hatred  of  him  she  threw  an  energy  always  prim 
itive  and  sometimes  savage.  But  he  held  her  entire 
respect.  It  was  not  pleasant  to  admit  this.  Her  mind 
clung  to  the  shadowy  excuse  that  he  had  been  a  wblfer, 
although  the  Indians  looked  on  him  now  as  a  good  friend 
and  a  trader  who  would  not  take  advantage  of  them. 
Angus  McRae  himself  had  said  there  was  no  better 
citizen  in  the  Northland. 

No,  she  could  not  hold  Tom  Morse  in  contempt  as 
she  would  have  liked.  But  she  could  cherish  her  ani- 


A  BOARD  CREAKS  129 

mosity  and  feed  it  on  memories  that  scorched  her  as 
the  whiplash  had  her  smooth  and  tender  flesh.  She 
would  never  forgive  him  —  never.  Not  if  he  humbled 
himself  in  the  dust. 

Toward  Angus  McRae  she  held  no  grudge  whatever. 
He  had  done  only  his  duty  as  he  saw  it.  The  circum 
stances  had  forced  his  hand,  for  her  word  had  pledged 
him  to  punishment.  But  this  man  who  had  walked  into 
her  life  so  roughly,  mastered  her  by  physical  force, 
dragged  her  to  the  ignominy  of  the  whip,  and  afterward 
had  dared  to  do  her  a  service  —  when  she  woke  at  night 
and  thought  of  him  she  still  burned  with  shame  and 
anger.  He  had  been  both  author  and  witness  of  her 
humiliation. 

The  girl's  reverie  stirred  reflection  of  other  men,  for 
already  she  had  suitors  in  plenty.  Upon  one  of  them 
her  musing  lingered.  He  had  brought  to  her  gifts  of 
the  friendly  smile,  of  comradeship,  of  youth's  debonair 
give-and-take.  She  did  not  try  to  analyze  her  feel 
ing  for  Winthrop  Beresford.  It  was  enough  to  know 
that  he  had  brought  into  her  existence  the  sparkle  of 
joy. 

For  life  had  stalked  before  her  with  an  altogether  too 
tragic  mien.  In  this  somber  land  men  did  not  laugh 
much.  Their  smiles  held  a  background  of  gravity.  Icy 
winter  reigned  two  thirds  of  the  year  and  summer  was  a 
brief  hot  blaze  following  no  spring.  Nature  demanded  of 
those  who  lived  here  that  they  struggle  to  find  subsis 
tence.  In  that  conflict  human  beings  forgot  that  they 
had  been  brought  into  the  world  to  enjoy  it  with  careless 
rapture. 


130  MAN-SIZE 

Somewhere  in  the  house  a  board  creaked.  Jessie 
heard  it  inattentively,  for  in  the  bitter  cold  woodwork 
was  always  snapping  and  cracking. 

Beresford  had  offered  her  a  new  philosophy  of  We. 
She  did  not  quite  accept  it,  yet  it  fascinated.  He  be 
lieved  that  the  duty  of  happiness  was  laid  on  people  as 
certainly  as  the  duty  of  honesty.  She  remembered  that 
once  he  had  said  . . . 

There  had  come  to  her  no  sound,  but  Jessie  knew  that 
some  one  had  opened  the  door  and  was  standing  on  the 
threshold  watching  her.  She  turned  her  head.  Her  self- 
invited  guest  was  Whaley. 

Jessie  rose.    "What  do  you  want?" 

She  was  startled  at  the  man's  silent  entry,  ready  to  be 
alarmed  if  necessary,  but  not  yet  afraid.  It  was  as 
though  her  thoughts  waited  for  the  cue  he  would  pres 
ently  give.  Some  instinct  for  safety  made  her  cautious. 
She  did  not  tell  the  free  trader  that  her  father  and 
Fergus  were  from  home. 

He  looked  at  her,  appraisingly,  from  head  to  foot, 
in  such  a  way  that  she  felt  his  gaze  had  stripped  her. 

"You  know  what  I  want.  You  know  what  I'm  going 
to  get . . .  some  day,"  he  purred  in  his  slow,  feline  way. 

She  pushed  from  her  mind  a  growing  apprehension. 

"Father  and  Fergus  —  if  you  want  them  —  " 

"Have  I  said  I  wanted  them?"  he  asked.  "They're 
out  in  the  woods  trappin'.  I'm  not  lookin'  for  them. 
The  two  of  us '11  be  company  for  each  other." 

"Go,"  she  said,  anger  flaring  at  his  insolence.  "Go. 
You've  no  business  here." 

"I'm  not  here  for  business,  but  for  pleasure,  my  dear." 


A  BOARD  CREAKS  131 

The  cold,  fishy  eyes  in  his  white  face  gloated.  Sud 
denly  she  wanted  to  scream  and  pushed  back  the  desire 
scornfully.  If  she  did,  nobody  would  hear  her.  This 
had  to  be  fought  out  one  to  one. 

"Why  did  n't  you  knock?"  she  demanded. 

"We'll  say  I  did  and  that  you  did  n't  hear  me,"  he 
answered  suavely.  "What's  it  matter  among  friends 
anyhow?" 

"What  do  you  want?"  By  sheer  will  power  she  kept 
her  voice  low. 

"Your  mother's  over  at  the  house.  I  dropped  in  to 
say  she'll  probably  stay  all  night." 

"Is  your  wife  worse?" 

He  lifted  the  black  brows  that  contrasted  so 
sharply  with  the  pallor  of  the  face.  "Really  you  get 
ahead  of  me,  my  dear.  I  don't  recall  ever  getting 
married." 

"That's  a  hateful  thing  to  say,"  she  flamed,  and  bit 
her  lower  lip  with  small  white  teeth  to  keep  from  telling 
the  squaw-man  what  she  thought  of  him.  The  Cree  girl 
he  had  taken  to  wife  was  going  down  into  the  Valley  of 
the  Shadow  to  bear  him  a  child  while  he  callously 
repudiated  her. 

He  opened  his  fur  coat  and  came  to  the  fireplace.  "I 
can  say  nicer  things  —  to  the  right  girl,"  he  said,  and 
looked  meaningly  at  her. 

"I'll  have  to  go  get  Susie  Lemofne  to  stay  with  me," 
Jessie  said  hurriedly.  "I  did  n't  know  Mother  was  n't 
coming  home." 

She  made  a  move  toward  a  fur  lying  across  the  back 
of  a  chair. 


132  MAN-SIZE 

He  laid  a  hand  upon  her  arm.  "What's  your  rush? 
What  are  you  dodgin5  for,  girl?  I'm  good  as  Susie  to 
keep  the  goblins  from  gettin'  you." 

"Don't  touch  me."  Her  eyes  sparked  fire. 

"You're  mighty  high-heeled  for  a  nitchie.  I  reckon 
you  forget  you're  Sleeping  Dawn,  daughter  of  a  Black- 
foot  squaw." 

"I'm  Jessie  McRae,  daughter  of  Angus,  and  if  you 
insult  me,  you'll  have  to  settle  with  him." 

He  gave  a  short  snort  of  laughter.  "Wake  up,  girl. 
What's  the  use  of  foolin'  yourself?  You're  a  breed. 
McRae  's  tried  to  forget  it  and  so  have  you.  But  all  the 
time  you  know  damn  well  you're  half  Injun." 

Jessie  looked  at  him  with  angry  contempt,  then 
wheeled  for  the  door. 

Whaley  had  anticipated  that  and  was  there  before 
her.  His  narrowed,  covetous  eyes  held  her  while  one 
hand  behind  his  back  slid  the  bolt  into  place. 

"Let  me  out!"  she  cried. 

"Be  reasonable.  I'm  not  aimin  to  hurt  you." 

"Stand  aside  and  let  me  through." 

He  managed  another  insinuating  laugh.  "Have  some 
sense.  Quit  ridin*  that  high  horse  and  listen  while  I 
talk  to  you." 

But  she  was  frightened  by  this  time  as  much  as  she 
was  incensed.  A  drum  of  dread  was  beating  in  her 
panicky  heart.  She  saw  in  his  eyes  what  she  had  never 
before  seen  on  a  face  that  looked  into  hers  —  though 
she  was  to  note  it  often  in  the  dreadful  days  that  fol 
lowed  —  the  ruthless  appetite  of  a  wild  beast  crouching 
for  its  kill. 


A  BOARD  CREAKS  133 

"Let  me  go!  Let  me  go!"  Her  voice  was  shrilly  out 
of  control.  "Unbar  the  door,  I  tell  you!" 

"I'm  a  big  man  in  this  country.  Before  I'm  through 
I'll  be  head  chief  among  the  trappers  for  hundreds  of 
miles.  I'm  offerin'  you  the  chance  of  a  lifetime.  Throw 
in  with  me  and  you'll  ride  in  your  coach  at  Winnipeg 
some  day."  Voice  and  words  were  soft  and  smooth, 
but  back  of  them  Jessie  felt  the  panther  couched  for 
its  spring. 

She  could  only  repeat  her  demand,  in  a  cry  that 
reached  its  ictus  in  a  sob. 

"If  you're  dreamin'  about  that  red-coat  spy  — 
hopin'  he'll  marry  you  after  he's  played  fast  and  loose 
with  you  —  why,  forget  such  foolishness.  I  know  his 
kind.  When  he's  had  his  fling,  he'll  go  back  to  his  own 
people  and  settle  down.  He's  lookin'  for  a  woman,  not 
a  wife." 

"That's  a  lie!"  she  flung  out,  rage  for  the  moment  in 
ascendent.  "Open  that  door  or  I'll  —  " 

Swiftly  his  hand  shot  forward  and  caught  her  wrist. 
"What '11  you  do?"  he  asked,  and  triumph  rode  in  his 
eyes. 

She  screamed.  One  of  his  hands  clamped  down  over 
her  mouth,  the  other  went  round  her  waist  and  drew 
the  slim  body  to  him.  She  fought,  straining  from  him, 
throwing  back  her  head  in  another  lifted  shriek  for 
help. 

As  well  she  might  have  matched  her  strength  with  a 
buffalo  bull.  He  was  still  under  forty,  heavy-set,  bones 
packed  with  heavy  muscles.  It  seemed  to  her  that  all 
the  power  of  her  vital  youth  vanished  and  left  only 


134  MAN-SIZE 

limp  and  flaccid  weakness.  He  snatched  her  close  and 
kissed  the  dusky  eyes,  the  soft  cheeks,  the  colorful 
lips . . . 

She  became  aware  that  he  was  holding  her  from  him, 
listening.  There  was  a  crash  of  wood. 

Again  her  call  for  help  rang  out. 

Whaley  flung  her  from  him.  He  crouched,  every 
nerve  and  muscle  tense,  lips  drawn  back  in  a  snarl. 
She  saw  that  in  his  hand  there  was  a  revolver. 

Against  the  door  a  heavy  weight  was  hurled.  The 
wood  burst  into  splinters  as  the  bolt  shot  from  the 
socket.  Drunkenly  a  man  plunged  across  the  threshold, 
staggering  from  the  impact  of  the  shock. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
A  GUN  ROARS 

THE  two  men  glared  at  each  other,  silently,  their  faces 
distorted  to  gargoyles  in  the  leaping  and  uncertain 
light.  Wary,  vigilant,  tense,  they  faced  each  other  as 
might  jungle  tigers  waiting  for  the  best  moment  to 
attack. 

There  was  a  chance  for  the  situation  to  adjust  itself 
without  bloodshed.  Whaley  could  not  afford  to  kill  and 
Morse  had  no  desire  to  force  his  hand. 

Jessie's  fear  outran  her  judgment.  She  saw  the  men 
ace  of  the  revolver  trained  on  her  rescuer  and  thought 
the  gambler  was  about  to  fire.  She  leaped  for  the 
weapon,  and  so  precipitated  what  she  dreaded. 

The  gun  roared.  A  bullet  flew  past  Morse  and  buried 
itself  in  a  log.  Next  instant,  clinging  with  both  hands 
to  Whaley's  wrist,  Jessie  found  herself  being  tossed  to 
and  fro  as  the  man  struggled  to  free  his  arm.  Flung  at 
a  tangent  against  the  wall,  she  fell  at  the  foot  of  the 
couch  where  Fergus  slept. 

Again  the  blaze  and  roar  of  the  revolver  filled  the 
room.  Morse  plunged  head  down  at  his  enemy,  still 
carrying  the  log  he  had  used  as  a  battering-ram.  It 
caught  the  gambler  at  that  point  of  the  stomach  known 
as  the  solar  plexus.  Whaley  went  down  and  out  of 
consciousness  like  an  ox  that  has  been  pole-axed. 

Tom  picked  up  the  revolver  and  dropped  it  into  the 
pocket  of  his  fur  coat.  He  stooped  to  make  sure  that 


136  MAN-SIZE 

his  foe  was  beyond  the  power  of  doing  damage.  Then 
he  lifted  Jessie  from  the  corner  where  she  lay  huddled. 

"Hurt?  "he  asked. 

The  girl  shuddered.    "No.    Is  he —  is  he  killed?" 

"Wind  knocked  out  of  him.   Nothing  more." 

"He  did  n't  hit  you?" 

There  was  the  ghost  of  a  smile  in  his  eyes.  "No,  I  hit 
him." 

"He  was  horrid.  I  —  I —  "  Again  a  little  shiver 
ran  through  her  body.  She  felt  very  weak  at  the  knees 
and  caught  for  a  moment  at  the  lapel  of  his  coat  to 
steady  herself.  Neither  of  them  was  conscious  of  the 
fact  that  she  was  in  his  arms,  clinging  to  him  while  she 
won  back  self-control. 

"It 'sail  right  now.  Don't  worry.  Lucky  I  came  back 
to  show  Blandoine  which  furs  to  take." 

"If  you  had  n't  —  "  She  drew  a  ragged  breath  that 
was  half  a  sob. 

Morse  loved  her  the  more  for  the  strain  of  feminine 
hysteria  that  made  her  for  the  moment  a  soft  and  tender 
child  to  be  comforted.  He  had  known  her  competent, 
savage,  disdainful,  one  in  whom  vital  and  passionate 
life  flowed  quick.  He  had  never  before  seen  the  weak 
ness  in  her  reaching  out  to  strength.  That  by  sheer  luck 
it  was  his  power  to  which  she  clung  filled  him  with  deep 
delight. 

He  began  to  discount  his  joy  lest  she  do  it  instead. 
His  arm  fell  away  from  her  waist. 

"I  'most  wrecked  the  house,"  he  said  with  a  humor 
ous  glance  at  the  door.  "  I  don't  always  bring  one  o'  the 
walls  with  me  when  I  come  into  a  room." 


A  GUN  ROARS  137 

"He  bolted  the  door,"  she  explained  rather  need 
lessly.  "He  wouldn't  let  me  out." 

"I  heard  you  call,"  he  answered,  without  much  more 
point. 

She  glanced  at  the  man  lying  on  the  floor.  "You 
don't  think  he  might  be  —  '"  She  stopped,  unwilling 
to  use  the  word. 

Tom  knelt  beside  him  and  felt  his  heart. 

"It's  beating,"  he  said.  And  added  quickly,  "His 
eyes  are  open." 

It  was  true.  The  cold,  fishy  eyes  had  flickered  open 
and  were  taking  stock  of  the  situation.  The  gambler 
instantly  chose  his  line  of  defense.  He  spoke,  presently. 

"What  in  the  devil  was  bitin'  you,  Morse?  Just  be 
cause  I  was  jokin'  the  girl,  you  come  rampagin'  in  and 
knock  me  galley  west  with  a  big  club.  I  '11  not  stand  for 
that.  Soon  as  I'm  fit  to  handle  myself,  you  and  I'll 
have  a  settlement." 

"Get  up  and  get  out,"  ordered  the  younger  man. 

"When  I  get  good  and  ready.  Don't  try  to  run  on 
me,  young  fellow.  Some  other  fools  have  found  that 
dangerous." 

Whaley  sat  up,  groaned,  and  pressed  his  hands  upon 
the  abdomen  at  the  point  where  he  had  been  struck. 

The  reddish-brown  glint  in  the  eyes  of  Morse  adver 
tised  the  cold  rage  of  the  Montanan.  He  caught  the 
gambler  by  the  collar  and  pulled  him  to  his  feet. 

"Get  out,  you  yellow  wolf!"  he  repeated  in  a  low, 
savage  voice. 

The  white-faced  trader  was  still  wobbly  on  his  feet. 
He  felt  both  sore  and  sick  at  the  pit  of  his  stomach,  in 


138  MAN-SIZE 

no  mood  for  any  further  altercation  with  this  hard-hit 
ting  athlete.  But  he  would  not  go  without  saving  his 
face. 

"I  don't  know  what  business  you've  got  to  order  me 
out  —  unless  —  "  His  gaze  included  the  girl  for  a 
moment,  and  the  insult  of  his  leer  was  unmistakable. 

Morse  caught  him  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck,  ran 
him  out  of  the  room,  and  flung  him  down  the  steps 
into  the  road.  The  gambler  tripped  on  the  long  buffalo 
coat  he  was  wearing  and  rolled  over  in  the  snow. 
Slowly  he  got  to  his  feet  and  locked  eyes  with  the 
other. 

Rage  almost  choked  his  words.  "You'll  be  sorry  for 
this  one  o'  these  days,  Morse.  I'll  get  you  right.  No 
body  has  ever  put  one  over  on  Poker  Whaley  and  no 
body  ever  will.  Don't  forget  that." 

Tom  Morse  wasted  no  words.  He  stood  silently  on 
the  steps,  a  splendid,  supple  figure  of  menacing  power, 
and  watched  his  foe  pass  down  the  road.  There  was  in 
him  a  cruel  and  passionate  desire  to  take  the  gambler 
and  break  him  with  his  hands,  to  beat  him  till  he  crawled 
away  a  weak  and  wounded  creature  fit  for  a  hospital. 
He  clamped  his  teeth  hard  and  fought  down  the  impulse. 

Presently  he  turned  and  walked  slowly  back  into  the 
house.  His  face  was  still  set  and  his  hands  clenched. 
He  knew  that  if  Whaley  had  hurt  Jessie,  he  would  have 
killed  him  with  his  naked  fingers. 

"You  can't  stay  here.  Where  do  you  want  me  to 
take  you?"  he  asked,  and  his  cold  hardness  reminded 
her  of  the  Tom  Morse  who  had  led  her  to  the  whip  one 
other  night. 


A  GUN  ROARS  139 

She  did  not  know  that  inside  he  was  a  caldron  of 
emotion  and  that  it  was  only  by  freezing  himself  he 
could  keep  down  the  volcanic  eruption. 

"I'll  go  to  Susie  Lemoine's,"  she  said  in  a  small, 
obedient  voice. 

With  his  hands  in  his  pockets  he  stood  and  let  her 
find  a  fur  coat  and  slip  into  it.  He  had  a  sense  of  frus 
tration.  He  wanted  to  let  go  of  himself  and  tell  all  that 
was  in  his  torrid  heart.  Instead,  he  encased  himself  in 
ice  and  drove  her  farther  from  him. 

They  walked  down  the  road  side  by  side,  neither  of 
them  speaking.  She  too  was  a  victim  of  chaotic  feeling. 
It  would  be  long  before  she  could  forget  how  he  had 
broken  through  the  door  and  saved  her. 

But  she  could  not  find  the  words  to  tell  him  so.  They 
parted  at  the  door  of  Lemoine's  cabin  with  a  chill 
"Good-night"  that  left  them  both  unhappy  and  dis 
satisfied. 


CHAPTER  XIX 
"D'  YOU  WONDER  SHE  HATES  ME?" 

To  Morse  came  Angus  McRae  with  the  right  hand 
of  friendship  the  day  after  the  battle  in  the  log 
house. 

Eyes  blue  as  Highland  lochs  fastened  to  those  of  the 
fur-trader.  "Lad,  I  canna  tell  ye  what's  in  my  heart. 
'The  Lord  bless  thee,  and  keep  thee.  The  Lord  make  his 
face  shine  upon  thee,  and  be  gracious  unto  thee.  The 
Lord  lift  up  his  countenance  upon  thee,  and  give  thee 
peace.' " 

Tom,  embarrassed,  made  light  of  the  affair.  "Lucky 
I  was  Johnnie-on-the-Spot." 

The  old  Scot  shook  his  head.  "No  luck  sent  ye  back 
to  hear  the  skreigh  o'  the  lass,  but  the  whisper  of  the 
guid  Father  withoot  whose  permission  not  even  a  spar 
row  falls  to  the  ground.  He  chose  you  as  the  instru 
ment.  I'll  never  be  forgettin'  what  you  did  for  my 
dawtie,  Tom  Morse.  Jess  will  have  thankit  you,  but  I 
add  mine  to  hers." 

In  point  of  fact  Jessie  had  not  thanked  him  in  set 
words.  She  had  been  in  too  great  an  agitation  of  spirit 
to  think  of  it.  But  Morse  did  not  say  so. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right.  Any  one  would  have  done  it. 
Mighty  glad  I  was  near  enough.  Hope  she  does  n't 
feel  any  worse  for  the  shock." 

"Not  a  bit.  I'm  here  to  ask  ye  to  let  bygones  be 
bygones.  I've  nursed  a  grudge,  but,  man,  it's  clean 


D'  YOU  WONDER  SHE  HATES  ME?    141 

washed  oot  o'  my  heart.   Here's  my  hand,  if    you'll 
tak  it." 

Tom  did,  gladly.  He  discovered  at  the  same  moment 
that  the  sun  was  striking  sparks  of  light  from  a  thousand 
snow  crystals.  It  was  a  good  world,  if  one  only  looked 
for  the  evidence  of  it. 

"The  latchstring  is  always  oot  for  you  at  the  hame  of 
Angus  McRae.  Will  you  no'  drap  in  for  a  crack  the 
nicht?"  asked  the  trapper. 

"Not  to-night.  Sometime.  I'll  see."  Tom  found 
himself  in  the  position  of  one  who  finds  open  to  him  a 
long-desired  pleasure  and  is  too  shy  to  avail  himself  of 
it  immediately.  "Have  you  seen  Whaley  yet  to-day?" 
he  asked,  to  turn  the  subject. 

The  hunter's  lip  grew  straight  and  grim.  "  I  have  not. 
He's  no'  at  the  store.  The  clerk  says  a  messenger  called 
for  him  early  this  mornin'  and  he  left  the  clachan  at  once. 
Will  he  be  hidin'  oot,  do  you  think?" 

Tom  shook  his  head.  "Not  Whaley.  He'll  bluff  it 
through.  The  fellow's  not  yellow.  Probably  he'll 
laugh  it  off  and  say  he  was  only  stealin'  a  kiss  an'  that 
Miss  Jessie  was  silly  to  make  a  fuss  about  it." 

"  We  'II  let  it  go  at  that  —  after  I  've  told  him  publicly 
what  I  think  o'  him." 

Where  Whaley  had  been  nobody  in  Faraway  knew. 
When  he  returned  at  sunset,  he  went  direct  to  the  store 
and  took  off  his  snowshoes.  He  was  knocking  the  packed 
and  frozen  slush  from  them  at  the  moment  Angus 
McRae  confronted  him. 

The  trader  laughed,  from  the  lips,  just  as  Tom  had 
prophesied  he  would  do.  "I  reckon  I  owe  you  an 


142  MAN-SIZE 

apology,  McRae,"  he  said.  "That  liT  wild-cat  of  yours 
lost  her  head  when  I  jollied  her  and  Morse  broke  the 
door  down  like  the  jackass  he  is." 

The  dressing-down  that  Angus  McRae  gave  Whaley 
is  still  remembered  by  one  or  two  old-timers  in  the 
Northwest.  In  crisp,  biting  words  he  freed  his  mind 
without  once  lapsing  into  profanity.  He  finished  with 
a  warning.  "Tak  tent  you  never  speak  to  the  lass 
again,  or  you  an*  me '11  come  to  grips." 

The  storekeeper  heard  him  out,  a  sneering  smile  on 
his  white  face.  Inside,  he  raged  with  furious  anger,  but 
he  did  not  let  his  feelings  come  to  the  surface.  He  was 
a  man  who  had  the  patience  to  wait  for  his  vengeance. 
The  longer  it  was  delayed,  the  heavier  would  it  be.  A 
characteristic  of  his  cold,  callous  temperament  was  that 
he  took  fire  slowly,  but,  once  lit  his  hate  endured  like 
peat  coals  in  a  grate.  A  vain  man,  his  dignity  was  pre 
cious  to  him.  He  writhed  at  the  defeat  Morse  had  put 
upon  him,  at  his  failure  with  Jessie,  at  the  scornful  pub 
lic  rebuke  of  her  father.  Upon  all  three  of  these  some 
day  he  would  work  a  sweet  revenge.  Like  all  gamblers, 
he  followed  hunches.  Soon,  one  of  these  told  him,  his 
chance  would  come.  When  it  did  he  would  make  all 
three  of  them  sweat  blood. 

Beresford  met  Tom  Morse  later  in  the  day.  He 
cocked  a  whimsical  eye  at  the  fur-trader. 

"I  hear  McRae 's  going  to  sue  you  for  damages  to  his 
house,"  he  said. 

"Where  did  you  hear  all  that?"  asked  his  friend, 
apparently  busy  inspecting  a  half-dozen  beaver  furs. 

"And  Whaley,  for  damages  to  his  internal  machinery. 


D'  YOU  WONDER  SHE  HATES  ME?    143 

Don't  you  know  you  can't  catapult  through  a  man's 
tummy  with  a  young  pine  tree  and  not  injure  his  physi 
cal  geography?"  the  constable  reproached. 

"When  you're  through  spoofin'  me,  as  you  subjects 
of  the  Queen  call  it,"  suggested  Tom. 

"Why,  then,  I'll  tell  you  to  keep  an  eye  on  Whaley. 
He  does  n't  love  you  a  whole  lot  for  what  you  did,  and 
he's  liable  to  do  you  up  first  chance  he  gets." 

"I'm  not  lookin'  for  trouble,  but  if  Whaley  wants  a 
fight  - 

"  He  does  n't  —  not  your  kind  of  a  fight.  His  idea 
will  be  to  have  you  foul  before  he  strikes.  Walk  with  an 
eye  in  the  back  of  your  head.  Sleep  with  it  open. 
Don't  sit  at  windows  after  lamps  are  lit  —  not  without 
curtains  all  down.  Play  all  your  cards  close."  The  red 
coat  spoke  casually,  slapping  his  boot  with  a  small 
riding-switch.  He  was  smiling.  None  the  less  Tom  knew 
he  was  in  dead  earnest. 

"Sounds  like  good  advice.  I'll  take  it,"  the  trader 
said  easily.  "Anything  more  on  your  chest?" 

"Why,  yes.  Where  did  Whaley  go  to-day?  What 
called  him  out  of  town  on  a  hurry-up  trip  of  a  few  hours?  " 

"Don't  know.  Do  you?" 

"No,  but  I'm  a  good  guesser." 

"Meanin'?" 

"Bully  West.  Holed  up  somewhere  out  in  the  woods. 
A  fellow  came  in  this  morning  and  got  Whaley,  who 
snowshoed  back  with  him  at  once." 

Tom  nodded  agreement.  "Maybeso.  Whaley  was 
away  five  or  six  hours.  That  means  he  probably  trav 
eled  from  eight  to  ten  miles  out." 


144  MAN-SIZE 

"Question  is,  in  what  direction?  Nobody  saw  him  go 
or  come  —  at  least,  so  as  to  know  that  he  did  n't  circle 
round  the  town  and  come  in  from  the  other  side." 

"  He  '11  go  again,  with  supplies  for  West.  Watch  him." 

"I '11  do  just  that." 

"He  might  send  some  one  with  them." 

"Yes,  he  might  do  that,"  admitted  Beresford.  "I'll 
keep  an  eye  on  the  store  and  see  what  goes  out.  We 
want  West.  He 's  a  cowardly  murderer  —  killed  the 
man  who  trusted  him  —  shot  him  in  the  back.  This 
country  will  be  well  rid  of  him  when  he's  hanged  for 
what  he  did  to  poor  Tim  Kelly." 

"He's  a  rotten  bad  lot,  but  he's  dangerous.  Never 
forget  that,"  warned  the  fur-buyer.  "If  he  ever  gets 
the  drop  on  you  for  a  moment,  you're  gone." 

"Of  course  we  may  be  barking  up  the  wrong  tree," 
the  officer  reflected  aloud.  "Maybe  West  is  n't  within 
five  hundred  miles  of  here.  Maybe  he  headed  off  an 
other  way.  But  I  don't  think  it.  He  had  to  get  back 
to  where  he  was  known  so  as  to  get  an  outfit.  That 
meant  either  this  country  or  Montana.  And  the  word 
is  that  he  was  seen  coming  this  way  both  at  Slide  Out 
and  crossing  Old  Man's  River  after  he  made  his  get 
away." 

"He's  likely  figurin'  on  losin'  himself  in  the  North 
woods." 

"My  notion,  too.  Say,  Tom,  I  have  an  invitation 
from  a  young  lady  for  you  and  me.  I'm  to  bring  you  to 
supper,  Jessie  McRae  says.  To-night.  Venison  and 
sheep  pemmican  —  and  real  plum  pudding,  son.  You  're 
to  smoke  the  pipe  of  peace  with  Angus  and  warm  your- 


D'  YOU  WONDER  SHE  HATES  ME?    145 

self  in  the  smiles  of  Miss  Jessie  and  Matapi-Koma. 
How's  the  programme  suit  you?" 

Tom  flushed.  "I  don't  reckon  I'll  go,"  he  said  after 
a  moment's  deliberation. 

His  friend  clapped  an  affectionate  hand  on  his  shoul 
der.  "Cards  down,  old  fellow.  Spill  the  story  of  this 
deadly  feud  between  you  and  Jessie  and  I'll  give  you 
an  outside  opinion  on  it." 

The  Montanan  looked  at  him  bleakly.  "Haven't 
you  heard?  If  you  have  n't,  you're  the  only  man  in  this 
country  that  has  n't." 

"You  mean  —  about  the  whipping?  "  Beresford  asked 
gently. 

"That's  all,"  Morse  answered  bitterly.  "Nothing 
a-tall.  I  merely  had  her  horsewhipped.  You  would  n't 
think  any  girl  would  object  to  that,  would  you?" 

"I'd  like  to  hear  the  right  of  it.  How  did  it 
happen?" 

"The  devil  was  in  me,  I  reckon.  We  were  runnin' 
across  the  line  that  consignment  of  whiskey  you  found 
and  destroyed  near  Whoop-Up.  She  came  on  our  camp 
one  night,  crept  up,  and  smashed  some  barrels.  I 
caught  her.  She  fought  like  a  wild-cat."  Morse  pulled 
up  the  sleeve  of  his  coat  and  showed  a  long,  ragged  scar 
on  the  arm.  "Gave  me  that  as  a  liT  souvenir  to  re 
member  her  by.  You  see,  she  was  afraid  I'd  take  her 
back  to  camp.  So  she  fought.  You  know  West.  I 
would  n't  have  taken  her  to  him." 

"What  did  you  do?" 

"After  I  got  her  down,  we  came  to  terms.  I  was  to 
take  her  to  McRae's  camp  and  she  was  to  be  horse- 


146  MAN-SIZE 

whipped  by  him.  My  arm  was  hurtin'  like  sin,  and  I 
was  thinkin'  her  only  a  wild  young  Injun." 

"So  you  took  her  home?" 

"And  McRae  flogged  her.  You  know  him.  He's 
Scotch  —  and  thorough.  It  was  a  sickening  business. 
When  he  got  through,  he  was  white  as  snow.  I  felt  like 
a  murderer.  D'  you  wonder  she  hates  me?" 

Beresford's  smile  was  winning.  "Is  it  because  she 
hates  you  that  she  wants  you  to  come  to  supper  to 
night?" 

"It's  because  she's  in  debt  to  me  —  or  thinks  she  is, 
for  of  course  she  is  n't  —  and  wants  to  pay  it  and  get 
rid  of  it  as  soon  as  she  can.  I  tell  you,  Win,  she  could  n't 
bear  to  touch  my  hand  when  she  gave  me  the  key  to  the 
storehouse  the  other  night  —  laid  it  down  on  the  table 
for  me  to  pick  up.  It  has  actually  become  physical  with 
her.  She'd  shudder  if  I  touched  her.  I'm  not  going  to 
supper  there.  Why  should  I  take  advantage  of  a  hold 
I  have  on  her  generosity?  No,  I'll  not  go." 

And  from  that  position  Beresford  could  not  move 
him. 

After  supper  the  constable  found  a  chance  to  see 
Jessie  alone.  She  was  working  over  the  last  touches  of 
the  gun-case. 

"When  it's  finished  who  gets  it?"  he  asked,  sitting 
down  gracefully  on  the  arm  of  a  big  chair. 

She  flashed  a  teasing  glance  at  him.  "Who  do  you 
think  deserves  it?" 

"I  deserve  it,"  he  assured  her  at  once.  "But  it  is  n't 
the  deserving  always  who  get  the  rewards  in  this  world. 
Very  likely  you  '11  give  it  to  some  chap  like  Tom  Morse." 


D'  YOU  WONDER  SHE  HATES  ME?    147 

"Who  would  n't  come  to  supper  when  we  asked  him." 
She  lifted  steady,  inquiring  eyes.  "What  was  the  real 
reason  he  did  n't  come?" 

"Said   he   couldn't   get   away  from  the  store  be 


cause  —  " 


"Yes,  I  heard  that.  I'm  asking  for  the  real  reason, 
Win." 

He  gave  it.  "Tom  thinks  you  hate  him  and  he  won't 
force  himself  on  your  generosity." 

"Oh!"  She  seemed  to  be  considering  that. 

"Do  you?" 

"Do  I  what?" 

"Hate  him." 

She  felt  a  flush  burning  beneath  the  dusky  brown  of 
her  cheeks.  "If  you  knew  what  he'd  done  to  me  —  " 

"Perhaps  I  do,"  he  said,  very  gently. 

Her  dark  eyes  studied  him  intently.  "He  told 
you?" 

"No,  one  hears  gossip.  He  hates  himself  because  of 
it.  Tom's  white,  Jessie." 

"And  I'm  Indian.  Of  course  that  does  make  a  differ 
ence.  If  he'd  had  a  white  girl  whipped,  you  could  n't 
defend  him,"  she  flamed. 

"You  know  I  didn't  mean  that,  little  pal."  His 
sunny  smile  was  disarming.  "What  I  mean  is  that  he's 
sorry  for  what  he  did.  Why  not  give  him  a  chance  to 
be  friends?" 

"Well,  we  gave  him  a  chance  to-night,  didn't  we? 
And  he  chose  not  to  take  it.  What  do  you  want  me 
to  do  —  go  and  thank  him  kindly  for  having  me 
whipped?" 


148  MAN-SIZE 

Beresford  gave  up  with  a  shrug.  He  knew  when  he 
had  said  enough.  Some  day  the  seed  he  had  dropped 
might  germinate. 

"Would  n't  it  be  a  good  idea  to  work  a  W.  B.  on  that 
case?"  he  asked  with  friendly  impudence.  "Then  if  I 
lost  it,  whoever  found  it  could  return  it." 

"I  don't  give  presents  to  people  who  lose  them,"  she 
parried. 

Her  dancing  eyes  were  very  bright  as  they  met  his. 
She  loved  the  trim  lines  of  his  clean  beautiful  youth  and 
the  soul  expressed  by  them. 

Matapi-Koma  waddled  into  the  room  and  the 
Mounted  Policeman  transferred  his  attention  to  her. 
She  weighed  two  hundred  twelve  pounds,  but  was  not 
sensitive  on  the  subject.  Beresford  claimed  anxiously 
that  she  was  growing  thin. 

The  Indian  woman  merely  smiled  on  him  benignantly. 
She  liked  him,  as  all  women  did.  And  she  hoped  that 
he  would  stay  in  the  country  and  marry  Sleeping  Dawn. 


CHAPTER  XX 
ONISTAH  READS  SIGN 

McRAE  fitted  Jessie's  snowshoes. 

"You'll  be  hame  before  the  dark,  lass,"  he  said,  a 
little  anxiously. 

"Yes,  Father." 

The  hunter  turned  to  Onistah.  "She's  in  your  care, 
lad.  Gin  the  weather  changes,  or  threatens  to,  let  the 
traps  go  and  strike  for  the  toon.  You're  no'  to  tak 
chances." 

"Back  assam  weputch  (very  early),"  promised  the 
Blackfoot. 

He  was  proud  of  the  trust  confided  to  him.  To  him 
McRae  was  a  great  man.  Among  many  of  the  trappers 
and  the  free  traders  the  old  Scot's  word  was  law.  They 
came  to  him  with  their  disputes  for  settlement  and 
abided  by  his  decisions.  For  Angus  was  not  only  the 
patriarch  of  the  clan,  if  such  a  loose  confederation  of 
followers  could  be  called  a  clan;  he  was  esteemed  for 
his  goodness  and  practical  common  sense. 

Onistah's  heart  swelled  with  an  emotion  that  was 
more  than  vanity.  His  heart  filled  with  gladness  that 
Jessie  should  choose  him  as  guide  and  companion  to 
snowshoe  with  her  out  into  the  white  forests  where 
her  traps  were  set.  For  the  young  Indian  loved  her 
dumbly,  without  any  hope  of  reward,  in  much  the  same 
way  that  some  of  her  rough  soldiers  must  have  loved 
Joan  of  Arc.  Jessie  was  a  mistress  whose  least  whim  he 


150  MAN-SIZE 

felt  it  a  duty  to  obey.  He  had  worshiped  her  ever  since 
he  had  seen  her,  a  little  eager  warm-hearted  child, 
playing  in  his  mother's  wigwam.  She  was  as  much  be 
yond  his  reach  as  the  North  Star.  Yet  her  swift  tender 
smile  was  for  him  just  as  it  was  for  Fergus. 

They  shuffled  out  of  the  village  into  the  forest  that 
crept  up  to  the  settlement  on  all  sides.  Soon  they  were 
deep  in  its  shadows,  pushing  along  the  edge  of  a  muskeg 
which  they  skirted  carefully  in  order  not  to  be  hampered 
by  its  treacherous  boggy  footing. 

Jessie  wore  a  caribou-skin  capote  with  the  fur  on  as  a 
protection  against  the  cold  wind.  Her  moccasins  were 
of  smoked  moose-skin  decorated  with  the  flower-pattern 
bead  embroidery  so  much  in  use  among  the  French 
half-breeds  of  the  North.  The  socks  inside  them  were  of 
duffle  and  the  leggings  of  strouds,  both  materials  manu 
factured  for  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company  for  its  trappers. 

The  day  was  comparatively  warm,  but  the  snow  was 
not  slushy  nor  very  deep.  None  the  less  she  was  glad 
when  they  reached  the  trapping  ground  and  Onistah 
called  a  halt  for  dinner.  She  was  tired,  from  the  weight 
of  the  snow  on  her  shoes,  and  her  feet  were  blistered  by 
reason  of  the  lacings  which  cut  into  the  duffle  and  the 
tender  flesh  inside. 

Onistah  built  a  fire  of  poplar,  which  presently  crackled 
like  a  battle  front  and  shot  red-hot  coals  at  them  in  an 
irregular  fusillade.  Upon  this  they  made  tea,  heated 
pemmican  and  bannocks,  and  thawed  a  jar  of  preserves 
Jessie  had  made  the  previous  summer  of  service  berries 
and  wild  raspberries.  Before  it  they  dried  their  moc 
casins,  socks,  and  leggings. 


ONISTAH  READS  SIGN  151 

Afterward  they  separated  to  make  a  round  of  the 
traps,  agreeing  to  meet  an  hour  and  a  half  later  at  the 
place  of  their  dinner  camp. 

The  Blackfoot  found  one  of  the  small  traps  torn  to 
pieces,  probably  by  a  bear,  for  he  saw  its  tracks  in  the 
snow.  He  rebuilt  the  snare  and  baited  it  with  parts  of  a 
rabbit  he  had  shot.  In  one  trap  he  discovered  a  skunk 
and  in  another  a  timber  wolf.  When  he  came  in  sight  of 
the  rendezvous,  he  was  late. 

Jessie  was  not  there.  He  waited  half  an  hour  in  grow 
ing  anxiety  before  he  went  to  meet  her.  Night  would 
fall  soon.  He  must  find  her  while  it  was  still  light  enough 
to  follow  her  tracks.  The  disasters  that  might  have 
fallen  upon  her  crowded  his  mind.  A  bear  might  have  at 
tacked  her.  She  might  be  lost  or  tangled  in  the  swampy 
muskeg.  Perhaps  she  had  accidentally  shot  herself. 

As  swiftly  as  he  could  he  snowshoed  through  the 
forest,  following  the  plain  trail  she  had  left.  It  carried 
him  to  a  trap  from  which  she  had  taken  prey,  for  it  was 
newly  baited  and  the  snow  was  sprinkled  with  blood. 
Before  he  reached  the  second  gin,  the  excitement  in 
him  quickened.  Some  one  in  snowshoes  had  cut  her 
path  and  had  deflected  to  pursue.  Onistah  knew  that 
the  one  following  was  a  white  man.  The  points  of  the 
shoes  toed  out.  Crees  toed  in,  just  the  same  on  webs 
as  in  moccasins. 

His  imagination  was  active.  What  white  man  had 
any  business  in  these  woods?  Why  should  he  leave  that 
business  to  overtake  Jessie  McRae?  Onistah  did  not 
quite  know  why  he  was  worried,  but  involuntarily  he 
quickened  his  pace. 


152  MAN-SIZE 

Less  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile  farther  on,  he  read  an 
other  chapter  of  the  story  written  in  the  trampled  snow. 
There  had  been  a  struggle.  His  mistress  had  been  over 
powered.  He  could  see  where  she  had  been  flung  into 
a  white  bank  and  dragged  out  of  it.  She  had  tried  to 
run  and  had  got  hardly  a  dozen  yards  before  recapture. 
From  that  point  the  tracks  moved  forward  in  a  straight 
line,  those  of  the  smaller  webs  blotted  out  by  the  ones 
made  by  the  larger.  The  man  was  driving  the  girl  be 
fore  him. 

Who  was  he?  Where  was  he  taking  her?  For  what 
purpose?  Onistah  could  not  guess.  He  knew  that 
McRae  had  made  enemies,  as  any  forceful  character 
on  the  frontier  must.  The  Scotchman  had  kicked  out 
lazy  ne'er-do-wells  from  his  camp.  As  a  free  trader  he 
had  matched  himself  against  the  Hudson's  Bay  Com 
pany.  But  of  those  at  war  with  him  few  would  stoop 
to  revenge  themselves  on  his  daughter.  The  Blackfoot 
had  not  heard  of  the  recent  trouble  between  Whaley  and 
the  McRaes,  nor  had  the  word  reached  him  that  Bully 
West  was  free  again.  Wherefore  he  was  puzzled  at 
what  the  signs  on  the  snow  told  him. 

Yet  he  knew  he  had  read  them  correctly.  The  final 
proof  of  it  to  him  was  that  Jessie  broke  trail  and  not  the 
man.  If  he  were  a  friend  he  would  lead  the  way.  He 
was  at  her  heels  because  he  wanted  to  make  sure  that 
she  did  not  try  to  escape  or  to  attack  him. 

The  tracks  led  down  into  the  muskeg.  It  was  spitting 
snow,  but  he  had  no  difficulty  in  seeing  where  the  trail 
led  from  hummock  to  hummock  in  the  miry  earth. 
The  going  here  was  difficult,  for  the  thick  moss  was  full 


ONISTAH  READS  SIGN  153 

of  short,  stiff  brush  that  caught  the  webbed  shoes  and 
tripped  the  traveler.  It  was  hard  to  find  level  footing. 
The  mounds  were  uneven,  and  more  than  once  Onistah 
plunged  knee-deep  from  one  into  the  swamp. 

He  crossed  the  muskeg  and  climbed  an  ascent  into 
the  woods,  swinging  sharply  to  the  right.  There  was 
no  uncertainty  as  to  the  direction  of  the  tracks  in  the 
snow.  If  they  veered  for  a  few  yards,  it  was  only  to 
miss  a  tree  or  to  circle  down  timber.  Whoever  he  might 
be,  the  man  who  had  taken  Jessie  prisoner  knew  exactly 
where  he  was  going. 

The  Blackfoot  knew  by  the  impressions  of  the  webs 
that  he  was  a  large,  heavy  man.  Once  or  twice  he  saw 
stains  of  tobacco  juice  on  the  snow.  The  broken  bits  of 
a  whiskey-bottle  flung  against  a  tree  did  not  tend  to 
reassure  him. 

He  saw  smoke.  It  came  from  a  tangle  of  undergrowth 
in  a  depression  of  the  forest.  Very  cautiously,  with  the 
patience  of  his  race,  he  circled  round  the  cabin  through 
the  timber  and  crept  up  to  it  on  hands  and  knees. 
Every  foot  of  the  way  he  took  advantage  of  such  cover 
as  was  to  be  had. 

The  window  was  a  small,  single-paned  affair  built  in 
the  end  opposite  the  door.  Onistah  edged  close  to  it 
and  listened.  He  heard  the  drone  of  voices,  one  heavy 
and  snarling,  another  low  and  persuasive. 

His  heart  jumped  at  the  sound  of  a  third  voice,  a 
high-pitched  treble.  He  would  have  known  it  among 
a  thousand.  It  had  called  to  him  in  the  swirl  of  many  a 
wind-swept  storm.  He  had  heard  it  on  the  long  traverse, 
in  the  stillness  of  the  lone  night,  at  lakeside  camps  built 


154  MAN-SIZE 

far  from  any  other  human  being.  His  imagination  had 
heard  it  on  the  summer  breeze  as  he  paddled  across  a 
sun-drenched  lake  in  his  birch-bark  canoe. 

The  Blackfoot  raised  his  head  till  he  could  look 
through  the  window. 

Jessie  McRae  sat  on  a  stool  facing  him.  Two  men 
were  in  the  room.  One  strode  heavily  up  and  down  while 
the  other  watched  him  warily. 


CHAPTER  XXI 
ON  THE  FRONTIER  OF  DESPAIR 

THE  compulsion  of  life  had  denied  Jessie  the  niceness 
given  girls  by  the  complexities  of  modern  civilization. 
She  had  been  brought  up  close  to  raw  stark  nature. 
The  habits  of  animals  were  familiar  to  her  and  the 
vices  of  the  biped  man. 

A  traveler  in  the  sub-Arctic  is  forced  by  the  deadly 
cold  of  the  North  into  a  near  intimacy  of  living  with  his 
fellows.  Jessie  had  more  than  once  taken  a  long  sled 
journey  with  her  father.  On  one  occasion  she  had  slept 
in  a  filthy  Indian  wigwam  with  a  dozen  natives  all 
breathing  the  same  foul,  unventilated  air.  Again  she 
had  huddled  up  against  the  dogs,  with  her  father  and 
two  French  half-breeds,  to  keep  in  her  the  spark  of  life 
a  blizzard's  breath  was  trying  to  blow  out. 

On  such  a  trip  some  of  the  common  decencies  of 
existence  are  dropped.  The  extreme  low  temperature 
makes  it  impossible  for  one  to  wash  either  face  or  hands 
without  the  skin  chapping  and  breaking.  Food  at  which 
one  would  revolt  under  other  circumstances  is  devoured 
eagerly. 

Jessie  was  the  kind  of  girl  such  a  life  had  made  her, 
with  modifications  in  the  direction  of  fineness  induced 
by  McRae's  sturdy  character,  her  schooling  at  Winnipeg, 
and  the  higher  plane  of  the  family  standard.  As  might 
have  been  expected,  she  had  courage,  energy,  and  that 
quality  of  decisive  action  bred  by  primitive  conditions. 


156  MAN-SIZE 

But  she  had  retained,  too,  a  cleanness  of  spirit  hardly 
to  be  looked  for  in  such  a  primeval  daughter  of  Eve. 
Her  imagination  and  her  reading  had  saved  the  girl's 
sweet  modesty.  A  certain  detachment  made  it  possible 
for  her  to  ignore  the  squalor  of  the  actual  and  see  it  only 
as  a  surface  triviality,  to  let  her  mind  dwell  in  inner 
concepts  of  goodness  and  beauty  while  bestiality  crossed 
the  path  she  trod. 

So  when  she  found  in  one  of  the  gins  a  lynx  savage 
with  the  pain  of  bruised  flesh  and  broken  bone  snapped 
by  the  jaws  of  the  trap,  the  girl  did  what  needed  to  be 
done  swiftly  and  with  a  minimum  of  reluctance. 

She  was  close  to  the  second  trap  when  the  sound  of 
webs  slithering  along  the  snow  brought  her  up  short. 
Her  first  thought  was  that  Onistah  had  changed  his 
mind  and  followed  her,  but  as  soon  as  the  snowshoer 
came  out  of  the  thick  timber,  she  saw  that  he  was  not 
an  Indian. 

He  was  a  huge  man,  and  he  bulked  larger  by  reason 
of  the  heavy  furs  that  enveloped  him.  His  rate  of  travel 
was  rapid  enough,  but  there  was  about  the  gait  an  awk 
ward  slouch  that  reminded  her  of  a  grizzly.  Some 
sullenness  of  temperament  seemed  to  find  expression  in 
the  fellow's  movements. 

The  hood  of  his  fur  was  drawn  well  forward  over  the 
face.  He  wore  blue  glasses,  as  a  protection  against  snow- 
blindness  apparently.  Jessie  smiled,  judging  him  a 
tenderfoot ;  for  except  in  March  and  April  there  is  small 
danger  of  the  sun  glare  which  destroys  sight.  Yet  he 
hardly  looked  like  a  newcomer  to  the  North.  For  one 
thing  he  used  the  web  shoes  as  an  expert  does.  Before 


ON  THE  FRONTIER  OF  DESPAIR     157 

he  stopped  beside  her,  she  was  prepared  to  revise  a  too 
hasty  opinion. 

Jessie  recoiled  at  the  last  moment,  even  before  she 
recognized  him.  It  was  too  late  to  take  precautions  now. 
He  caught  her  by  the  wrist  and  tore  off  his  glasses,  at 
the  same  time  shaking  back  the  hood. 

"Glad  to  death  to  meet  up  with  you,  missie,'' 
he  grinned  evilly  through  broken,  tobacco-stained 
teeth. 

The  blood  drenched  out  of  her  heart.  She  looked  at 
the  man,  silent  and  despairing.  His  presence  here  could 
mean  to  her  nothing  less  than  disaster.  The  girl's  white 
lips  tried  to  frame  words  they  could  not  utter. 

"Took  by  surprise,  ain't  you?"  he  jeered.  "But 
plumb  pleased  to  see  old  Bully  West  again,  eh?  It's  a 
damn  long  lane  that  ain't  got  a  crook  in  it  somewheres. 
An'  here  we  are  at  the  turn  together,  jus'  you  'n*  me, 
comfy,  like  I  done  promised  it  would  be  when  I  last 
seen  you." 

She  writhed  in  a  swift,  abortive  attempt  to  break 
his  hold. 

He  threw  back  his  head  in  a  roar  of  laughter,  then 
with  a  twist  of  his  fingers  brought  his  captive  to  the 
knees. 

Sharp  teeth  flashed  in  a  gleam  of  white.  He  gave  a 
roar  of  pain  and  tore  away  his  hand.  She  had  bit  him 
savagely  in  the  wrist,  as  she  had  once  done  with  an 
other  man  on  a  memorable  occasion. 

"Goddlemighty!"  he  bellowed.  "You  damn  liT  hell 
cat!" 

She  was  on  her  feet  and  away  instantly.   But  one  of 


158  MAN-SIZE 

the  snowshoes  had  come  off  in  the  struggle.  At  each 
step  she  took  the  left  foot  plunged  through  the  white 
crust  and  impeded  progress. 

In  a  dozen  strides  he  had  reached  her.  A  great  arm 
swung  round  and  buffeted  the  runner  on  the  side  of 
the  head.  The  blow  lifted  the  girl  from  her  feet  and 
flung  her  into  a  drift  two  yards  away. 

She  looked  up,  dazed  from  the  shock.  The  man  was 
standing  over  her,  a  huge,  threatening,  ill-shaped 
Colossus. 

"Get  up!"  he  ordered  harshly,  and  seized  her  by  the 
shoulder. 

She  found  herself  on  her  feet,  either  because  she  had 
risen  or  because  he  had  jerked  her  up.  A  ringing  in  the 
head  and  a  nausea  made  for  dizziness. 

"I'll  learn  you!"  he  exploded  with  curses.  "Try 
that  again  an'  I'll  beat  yore  head  off.  You're  Bully 
West's  woman,  un'erstand?  When  I  say  'Come!'  step 
lively.  When  I  say  'Go!'  get  a  move  on  you." 

"I '11  not."  Despite  her  fear  she  faced  him  with  spirit. 
"My  friends  are  near.  They'll  come  and  settle,  with 
you  for  this." 

He  put  a  check  on  his  temper.  Very  likely  what  she 
said  was  true.  It  was  not  reasonable  to  suppose  that 
she  was  alone  in  the  forest  many  miles  from  Faraway. 
She  had  come,  of  course,  to  look  at  the  traps,  but  some 
one  must  have  accompanied  her.  Who?  And  how 
many?  The  skulking  caution  of  his  wild-beast  nature 
asserted  itself.  He  had  better  play  safe.  Time  enough 
to  tame  the  girl  when  he  had  her  deep  in  the  Lone  Lands 
far  from  any  other  human  being  except  himself.  Just 


ON  THE  FRONTIER  OF  DESPAIR    159 

now  the  first  need  was  to  put  many  miles  between  them 
and  the  inevitable  pursuit. 

"Come,"  he  said.   "We'll  go." 

She  started  back  for  the  snowshoe  that  had  been  torn 
off.  Beside  it  lay  her  rifle.  If  she  could  get  hold  of  it 
again  — 

The  great  hulk  moved  beside  her,  his  thumb  and  fin 
gers  round  the  back  of  her  neck.  Before  they  reached 
the  weapon,  he  twisted  her  aside  so  cruelly  that  a  flame 
of  pain  ran  down  her  spine.  She  cried  out. 

He  laughed  as  he  stooped  for  the  gun  and  the  web. 
"Don*  play  none  o'  yore  monkey  tricks  on  Bully  West. 
He  knew  it  all  'fore  you  was  born." 

The  pressure  of  his  grip  swung  Jessie  to  the  left.  He 
gave  her  a  push  that  sent  her  reeling  and  flung  at  her 
the  snowshoe. 

"Hump  yoreself  now." 

She  knelt  and  adjusted  the  web.  She  would  have 
fought  if  there  had  been  the  least  chance  of  success. 
But  there  was  none.  Nor  could  she  run  away.  The 
fellow  was  a  callous,  black-hearted  ruffian.  He  would 
shoot  her  down  rather  than  see  her  escape.  If  she  be 
came  stubborn  and  refused  to  move,  he  would  cheer 
fully  torture  her  until  she  screamed  with  agony. 
There  was  nothing  he  would  like  better.  No,  for  the 
present  she  must  take  orders. 

"Hit  the  trail,  missie.  Down  past  that  big  tree,"  he 
snapped. 

"Where  are  you  taking  me?" 

"Don't  ask  me  questions.   Do  like  I  tell  you." 

The  girl  took  one  look  at  his  heavy,  brutal  face  and 


160  MAN-SIZE 

did  as  she  was  told.  Onistah  would  find  her.  When  she 
did  not  show  up  at  the  rendezvous,  he  would  follow  her 
trail  and  discover  that  something  was  amiss.  Good  old 
Onistah  never  had  failed  her.  He  was  true  as  tried  steel 
and  in  all  the  North  woods  there  was  no  better 
tracker. 

There  would  be  a  fight.  If  West  saw  him  first,  he 
would  shoot  the  Blackfoot  at  sight.  She  did  not  need 
to  guess  that.  He  would  do  it  for  two  reasons.  The  first 
was  the  general  one  that  he  did  not  want  any  of  her 
friends  to  know  where  he  was.  The  more  specific  one 
was  that  he  already  had  a  grudge  against  the  young 
Indian  that  he  would  be  glad  to  pay  once  for  all. 

Jessie's  one  hope  was  that  Onistah  would  hasten  to 
the  rescue.  Yet  she  dreaded  the  moment  of  his  coming. 
He  was  a  gentle  soul,  one  of  Father  Giguere's  converts. 
It  was  altogether  likely  that  he  would  walk  into  the 
camp  of  the  escaped  convict  openly  and  become  a  vic 
tim  of  the  murderer's  guile.  Onistah  did  not  lack  cour 
age.  He  would  fight  if  he  had  to  do  so.  Indeed,  she 
knew  that  he  would  go  through  fire  to  save  her.  But 
bravery  was  not  enough.  She  could  almost  have  wished 
that  her  foster-brother  was  as  full  of  devilish  treachery 
as  the  huge  ape-man  slouching  at  her  heels.  Then  the 
chances  of  the  battle  would  be  more  even. 

The  desperado  drove  her  down  into  the  muskeg, 
directing  the  girl's  course  with  a  flow  of  obscene  and 
ribald  profanity. 

It  is  doubtful  if  she  heard  him.  As  her  lithe,  supple 
limbs  carried  her  from  one  moss  hump  to  another,  she 
was  busy  with  the  problem  of  escape.  She  must  get 


ON  THE  FRONTIER  OF  DESPAIR     161 

away  soon.  Every  hour  increased  the  danger.  The  sun 
would  sink  shortly.  If  she  were  still  this  ruffian's  pris 
oner  when  the  long  Arctic  night  fell,  she  would  suffer 
the  tortures  of  the  damned.  She  faced  the  fact  squarely, 
though  her  cheeks  blanched  at  the  prospect  and  the 
heart  inside  her  withered. 

From  the  sloping  side  of  a  hummock  her  foot  slipped 
and  she  slid  into  the  icy  bog  to  her  knees.  Within  a 
few  minutes  duffles  and  leggings  were  frozen  and  she 
was  suffering  at  each  step. 

Out  of  the  muskeg  they  came  into  the  woods.  A 
flake  of  snow  fell  on  Jessie's  cheek  and  chilled  her  blood. 
For  she  knew  that  if  it  came  on  to  snow  before  Onistah 
took  the  trail  or  even  before  he  reached  the  place  to 
which  West  was  taking  her,  the  chances  of  a  rescue 
would  be  very  much  diminished.  A  storm  would  wipe 
out  the  tracks  they  had  made. 

"Swing  back  o'  the  rock  and  into  the  brush,"  West 
growled.  Then,  as  she  took  the  narrow  trail  through 
the  brush  that  had  grown  up  among  half  a  dozen  small 
down  trees,  he  barked  a  question:  "Whadjasay  yore 
Injun  name  was?" 

"My  name  is  Jessie  McRae,"  she  answered  with  a 
flash  of  angry  pride.  "  You  know  who  I  am  —  the 
daughter  of  Angus  McRae.  And  if  you  do  me  any  harm, 
he'll  hunt  you  down  and  kill  you  like  a  wolf." 

He  caught  her  by  the  arm  and  whirled  the  girl  round. 
His  big  yellow  canines  snapped  like  tusks  and  he 
snarled  at  her  through  clenched  jaws.  "Did  you  hear 
yore  master's  voice?  I  said,  what  was  yore  squaw 
name?" 


162  MAN-SIZE 

She  almost  shrieked  from  the  pain  of  his  fingers'  sav 
age  clutch  into  her  flesh.  The  courage  died  out  of  her 
arteries. 

"Sleeping  Dawn  they  called  me." 

"Too  long,"  he  pronounced.  "I'll  call  you  Dawn." 
The  sight  of  her  terror  of  him,  the  foretaste  of  the  tri 
umph  he  was  to  enjoy,  restored  him  for  a  moment  to  a 
brutal  good-humor.  "  An'  when  I  yell  *  Dawn '  at  you  o' 
mornin's,  it  '11  be  for  you  to  hump  yoreself  an'  git  up  to 
build  the  fires  and  rustle  breakfast.  I'll  treat  you  fine 
if  you  behave,  but  if  you  git  sulky,  you'll  taste  the 
dog- whip.  I'm  boss.  You'll  have  a  heluva  time  if  you 
don't  come  runnin'  when  I  snap  my  fingers.  Un'er- 
stand?" 

She  broke  down  in  a  wailing  appeal  to  whatever  good 
there  was  in  him.  "Let  me  go  back  to  Father!  I  know 
you've  broke  prison.  If  you're  good  to  me,  he'll  help 
you  escape.  You  know  he  has  friends  everywhere. 
They'll  hide  you  from  the  red-coats.  He'll  give  you  an 
outfit  to  get  away  —  money  —  anything  you  want. 
Oh,  let  me  go,  and  —  and  —  " 

He  grinned,  and  the  sight  of  his  evil  mirth  told  her 
she  had  failed. 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  I'd  git  you  right  some  day? 
Did  n't  I  promise  Angus  McRae  I  'd  pay  him  back 
aplenty  for  kickin'  me  outa  his  hide  camp?  Ain't  you 
the  liT  hell-cat  that  busted  my  whiskey-kegs,  that 
ran  to  the  red-coat  spy  an'  told  him  where  the  cache 
was,  that  shot  me  up  when  I  set  out  to  dry-gulch  him, 
as  you  might  say?  Where  do  you  figure  you  got  a 
license  to  expect  Bully  West  to  listen  to  Sunday- 


ON  THE  FRONTIER  OF  DESPAIR    163 

school  pap  about  being  good  to  you?  You're  my 
squaw,  an'  lucky  at  that  you  got  a  real  two-fisted 
man.  Hell's  hinges!  What's  eatin'  you?" 

"Never!"  she  cried.  "It's  true  what  I  told  you  once. 
I'd  rather  die.  Oh,  if  you've  got  a  spark  of  manhood 
in  you,  don't  make  me  kill  myself.  I'm  just  a  girl.  If 
I  ever  did  you  wrong,  I'm  sorry.  I'll  make  it  right. 
My  father  —  " 

"Listen."  His  raucous  voice  cut  through  her  en 
treaties.  "  I  Ve  heard  more 'n  plenty  about  McRae.  All 
I  want  o'  him  is  to  get  a  bead  on  him  once  with  a  rifle. 
Get  me?  Now  this  other  talk  —  about  killin'  yoreself  — 
nothin'  to  it  a-tall.  Go  to  it  if  tha's  how  you  feel.  Yore 
huntin'-knif e 's  right  there  in  yore  belt."  He  reached 
forward  and  plucked  it  from  its  sheath,  then  handed  it 
to  her  blade  first,  stepping  back  a  pace  at  once  to  make 
sure  she  did  not  use  it  on  him.  "You  got  yore  chance 
now.  Kill  away.  I'll  stand  right  here  an'  see  nobody 
interferes  with  you." 

She  shifted  the  knife  and  gripped  the  handle.  A 
tumult  seethed  in  her  brain.  She  saw  nothing  but  that 
evil,  grinning  face,  hideous  and  menacing.  For  a 
moment  murder  boiled  up  in  her,  red-hot  and  sinister. 
If  she  could  kill  him  now  as  he  stood  jeering  at  her 
—  drive  the  blade  into  that  thick  bull  neck 

The  madness  passed.  She  could  not  do  it  even  if  it 
were  within  her  power.  The  urge  to  kill  was  not  strong 
enough.  It  was  not  overwhelming.  And  in  the  next 
thought  she  knew,  too,  that  she  could  not  kill  herself 
either.  The  blind  need  to  live,  the  animal  impulse  of 
self-preservation,  at  whatever  cost,  whatever  shame, 


164  MAN-SIZE 

was  as  yet  more  powerful  than  the  horror  of  the  fate 
impending. 

She  flung  the  knife  down  into  the  snow  in  a  fury  of 
disgust  and  self-contempt. 

His  head  went  back  in  a  characteristic  roar  of  revolt 
ing  mirth.  He  had  won.  Bully  West  knew  how  to 
conquer  'em,  no  matter  how  wild  they  were. 

With  feet  dragging,  head  drooped,  and  spirits  at  the 
zero  hour,  Jessie  moved  down  a  ravine  into  sight  of  a 
cabin.  Smoke  rose  from  the  chimney  languidly. 

"Home,"  announced  West. 

To  the  girl,  at  the  edge  of  desperation,  that  log  house 
appeared  as  the  grave  of  her  youth.  All  the  pride  and 
glory  and  joy  that  had  made  life  so  vital  a  thing  were 
to  be  buried  here.  When  next  she  came  out  into  the 
sunlight  she  would  be  a  broken  creature — the  property 
of  this  horrible  caricature  of  a  man. 

Her  captor  opened  the  door  and  pushed  the  girl 
inside. 

She  stood  on  the  threshold,  eyes  dilating,  heart 
suddenly  athrob  with  hope. 

A  man  sitting  on  a  stool  before  the  open  fire  turned 
his  head  to  see  who  had  come  in. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

"MY  DAMN  PRETTY  LFL'  HIGH-STEPPIN' 
SQUAW" 

THE  man  on  the  stool  was  Whaley. 

One  glance  at  the  girl  and  one  at  West's  triumphant 
gargoyle  grin  was  enough.  He  understood  the  situation 
better  than  words  could  tell  it. 

To  Jessie,  at  this  critical  moment  of  her  life,  even 
Whaley  seemed  a  God-send.  She  pushed  across  the 
room  awkwardly,  not  waiting  to  free  herself  of  the 
webs  packed  with  snow.  In  the  dusky  eyes  there  was  a 
cry  for  help. 

"Save  me  from  him!"  she  cried  simply,  as  a  child 
might  have  done.  "You  will,  won't  you?" 

The  black  eyebrows  in  the  cold,  white  face  drew  to  a 
line.  The  gambler's  gaze,  expressionless  as  a  blank 
wall,  met  hers  steadily. 

"Why  don't  you  send  for  your  friend  Morse?"  he 
asked.  "He's  in  that  business.  I  ain't." 

It  was  as  though  he  had  struck  her  in  the  face. 
The  eyes  that  clung  to  his  were  horror-filled.  Did 
there  really  live  men  so  heartless  that  they  would  not 
lift  a  hand  to  snatch  a  child  from  a  ferocious  wolf? 

West's  laughter  barked  out,  rapacious  and  savage. 
"She's  mine,  jus'  like  I  said  she'd  be.  My  damn  pretty 
liT  high-steppin'  squaw." 

His  partner  looked  at  him  bleakly.  "Oh,  she's  yours, 
is  she?" 


166  MAN-SIZE 

"You  bet  yore  boots.  I'll  show  her  —  make  her  eat 
outa  my  hand,"  boasted  the  convict. 

"Will  you  show  McRae  too  —  and  all  his  friends,  as 
well  as  the  North-West  Mounted?  Will  you  make  'em 
all  eat  out  of  your  hands?" 

"Whadjamean?" 

"  Why,  I  had  a  notion  you  were  loaded  up  with  trouble 
and  did  n't  need  to  hunt  more,"  sneered  the  gambler. 
"  I  had  a  notion  the  red-coats  were  on  your  heels  to  take 
you  across  the  plains  to  hang  you." 

"  I  '11  learn  'em  about  that,"  the  huge  fugitive  bragged. 
"They  say  I'm  a  killer.  Let  it  ride.  I'll  sure  enough 
let  'em  see  they're  good  guessers." 

Whaley  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  looked  at  him 
with  cold  contempt.  "You've  got  a  bare  chance  for  a 
getaway  if  you  travel  light  and  fast.  I  'd  want  long  odds 
to  back  it,"  he  said  coolly. 

"Tha's  a  heluva  thing  to  tell  a  friend,"  West 
snarled. 

"It's  the  truth.  Take  it  or  leave  it.  But  if  you  try 
to  bull  this  through  your  own  way  and  don't  let  me  run 
it,  you're  done  for." 

"How  done  for?" 

The  gambler  did  not  answer.  He  turned  to  Jessie. 
"Unless  you  want  your  feet  to  freeze,  you'd  better  get 
those  duffles  off." 

The  girl  took  off  her  mits  and  tried  to  unfasten  the 
leggings  after  she  had  kicked  the  snowshoes  from  her 
feet.  But  her  stiff  fingers  could  not  loosen  the  knots. 

The  free  trader  stooped  and  did  it  for  her  while  West 
watched  him  sulkily.  Jessie  unwound  the  cloth  and 


LI'L'  HIGH-STEPPIN'  SQUAW       167 

removed  moccasins  and  duffles.  She  sat  barefooted 
before  the  fire,  but  not  too  close. 

"If  they're  frozen  I'll  get  snow,"  Whaley  offered. 

"They're  not  frozen,  thank  you,"  she  answered. 

"Whadjamean  done  for?"  repeated  West. 

His  partner's  derisive,  scornful  eye  rested  on  him. 
"  Use  your  brains,  man.  The  Mounted  are  after  you  hot 
and  heavy.  You  know  their  record.  They  get  the  man 
they  go  after.  Take  this  fellow  Beresford,  the  one  that 
jugged  you." 

The  big  ruffian  shook  a  furious  fist  in  the  air.  "  Curse 
him!"  he  shouted,  and  added  a  dozen  crackling 
oaths. 

"Curse  him  and  welcome,"  Whaley  replied.  "But 
don't  fool  yourself  about  him.  He's  a  go-getter. 
Did  n't  he  go  up  Peace  River  after  Pierre  Poulette? 
Did  n  't  he  drag  him  back  with  cuffs  on  'most  a  year 
later?  That's  what  you've  got  against  you,  three 
hundred  red -coats  like  him." 

"You  tryin'  to  scare  me?"  demanded  West  sullenly. 

"I'm  trying  to  hammer  some  common  sense  into 
your  head.  Your  chance  for  a  safe  getaway  rests  on 
one  thing.  You've  got  to  have  friends  in  the  Lone 
Lands  who'll  hide  you  till  you  can  slip  out  of  the  coun 
try.  Can  you  do  that  if  the  trappers  —  friends  of 
McRae,  nearly  all  of  'em  —  carry  the  word  of  what  you 
did  to  this  girl?" 

"I'm  gonna  take  her  with  me."  West  stuck  doggedly 
to  his  idea.  He  knew  what  he  wanted.  His  life  was  for 
feit,  anyhow.  He  might  as  well  go  through  to  a  finish. 

From  where  she  sat  before  the  great  fire  Jessie's 


168  MAN-SIZE 

whisper  reached  Whaley.  "Don't  let  him,  please."  It 
was  an  ineffective  little  wail  straight  from  the  heart. 

Whaley  went  on,  as  though  he  had  not  heard.  "It's 
your  deal,  not  mine.  I'm  just  telling  you.  Take  this 
girl  along,  and  your  life's  not  worth  a  plugged  nickel." 

"  Hell's  hinges !  In  two  days  she  '11  be  crazy  about  me. 
Tha's  how  I  am  with  women." 

"In  two  days  she'll  hate  the  ground  you  walk  on,  if 
she  has  n't  killed  herself  or  you  by  that  time." 

Waves  of  acute  pain  were  pricking  into  Jessie's  legs 
from  the  pink  toes  to  the  calves.  She  was  massaging 
them  to  restore  circulation  and  had  to  set  her  teeth 
to  keep  from  crying. 

But  her  subconscious  mind  was  wholly  on  what 
passed  between  the  men.  She  knew  that  Whaley  was 
trying  to  reestablish  over  the  other  the  mental  domi 
nance  he  had  always  held.  It  was  a  frail  enough  tenure, 
no  doubt,  likely  to  be  upset  at  any  moment  by  vanity, 
suspicion,  or  heady  gusts  of  passion.  In  it,  such  as  it 
was,  lay  a  hope.  Watching  the  gambler's  cold,  impas 
sive  face,  the  stony  look  in  the  poker  eyes,  she  judged 
him  tenacious  and  strong-willed.  For  reasons  of  his 
own  he  was  fighting  her  battle.  He  had  no  intention  of 
letting  West  take  her  with  him. 

Why?  What  was  the  motive  in  the  back  of  his  mind? 
She  acquitted  the  man  of  benevolence.  If  his  wishes 
chanced  to  march  with  hers,  it  was  because  of  no  al 
truism.  He  held  a  bitter  grudge  against  Angus  McRae 
and  incidentally  against  her  for  the  humiliation  of  his 
defeat  at  the  hands  of  Morse.  To  satisfy  this  he  had 
only  to  walk  out  of  the  house  and  leave  her  to  an  ugly 


LI'L'  HIGH-STEPPIN'  SQUAW        169 

fate.  Why  did  he  not  do  this?  Was  he  playing  a  deep 
game  of  his  own  in  which  she  was  merely  a  pawn? 

She  turned  the  steaming  duffles  over  on  the  mud 
hearth  to  dry  the  other  side.  She  drew  back  the  moc 
casins  and  the  leggings  that  the  heat  might  not  scorch 
them.  The  sharp  pain  waves  still  beat  into  her  feet 
and  up  her  limbs.  To  change  her  position  she  drew  up 
a  stool  and  sat  on  it.  This  she  had  pushed  back  to  a 
corner  of  the  fireplace. 

For  Bully  West  was  straddling  up  and  down  the  room, 
a  pent  volcano  ready  to  explode.  He  knew  Whaley's 
advice  was  good.  It  would  be  suicide  to  encumber  him 
self  with  this  girl  in  his  flight.  But  he  had  never  disci 
plined  his  desires.  He  wanted  her.  He  meant  to  take  her. 
Passion,  the  lust  for  revenge,  the  bully  streak  in  him 
that  gloated  at  the  sight  of  some  one  young  and  fine 
trembling  before  him :  all  these  were  factors  contributing 
to  the  same  end.  By  gar,  he  would  have  what  he  had  set 
his  mind  on,  no  matter  what  Whaley  said. 

Jessie  knew  the  fellow  was  dangerous  as  a  wounded 
buffalo  bull  in  a  corral.  He  would  have  his  way  if  he 
had  to  smash  and  trample  down  any  one  that  opposed 
him.  Her  eyes  moved  to  Whaley's  black-browed,  blood 
less  face.  How  far  would  the  gambler  go  in  opposition 
to  the  other? 

As  her  glance  shifted  back  to  West,  it  was  arrested 
at  the  window.  The  girl's  heart  lost  a  beat,  then  sang  a 
pcean  of  joy.  For  the  copper-colored  face  of  Onistah  was 
framed  in  the  pane. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 
A  FORETASTE  OF  HELL 

JESSIE'S  eyes  flew  to  West  and  to  Whaley.  As  yet 
neither  of  them  had  seen  the  Blackfoot.  She  raised  a 
hand  and  pretended  to  brush  back  a  lock  of  hair. 

The  Indian  recognized  it  as  a  signal  that  she  had  seen 
him.  His  head  disappeared. 

Thoughts  in  the  girl's  mind  raced.  If  Winthrop  Beres- 
f  ord  or  Tom  Morse  had  been  outside  instead  of  Onistah, 
she  would  not  have  attempted  to  give  directions.  Either 
of  them  would  have  been  more  competent  than  she 
to  work  out  the  problem.  But  the  Blackfoot  lacked 
initiative.  He  would  do  faithfully  whatever  he  was 
told  to  do,  but  any  independent  action  attempted  by 
him  was  likely  to  be  indecisive.  She  could  not  conceive 
of  Onistah  holding  his  own  against  two  such  men  as 
these  except  by  slaughtering  them  from  the  window 
before  they  knew  he  was  there.  He  had  not  in  him 
sufficient  dominating  ego. 

Whaley  was  an  unknown  quantity.  It  was  impossible 
to  foresee  how  he  would  accept  the  intrusion  of  Onistah. 
Since  he  was  playing  his  own  game,  the  chances  are 
that  he  would  resent  it.  In  West's  case  there  could  be 
no  doubt.  If  it  was  necessary  to  his  plans,  he  would  not 
hesitate  an  instant  to  kill  the  Indian. 

Reluctantly,  she  made  up  her  mind  to  send  him  back 
to  Faraway  for  help.  He  would  travel  fast.  Within 
five  hours  at  the  outside  he  ought  to  be  back  with  her 


A  FORETASTE  OF  HELL  171 

father  or  Beresford.  Surely,  with  Whaley  on  her  side, 
she  ought  to  be  safe  till  then. 

She  caught  sight  of  Onistah  again,  his  eyes  level  with 
the  window-sill.  He  was  waiting  for  instructions. 

Jessie  gave  them  to  him  straight  and  plain.  She  spoke 
to  Whaley,  but  for  the  Blackfoot's  ear. 

"  Bring  my  father  here.  At  once.  I  want  him.  Won't 
you,  please?" 

Whaley 's  blank  poker  stare  focused  on  her.  "The 
last  word  I  had  from  Angus  McRae  was  to  keep  out  of 
your  affairs.  I  can  take  a  hint  without  waiting  for  a 
church  to  fall  on  me.  Get  some  one  else  to  take  your 
messages." 

"  If  you  're  going  back  to  town  I  thought  —  perhaps 
—  you'd  tell  him  how  much  I  need  him,"  she  pleaded. 
"Then  he'd  come  —  right  away." 

Onistah's  head  vanished.  He  knew  what  he  had  to  do 
and  no  doubt  was  already  on  the  trail.  Outside  it  was 
dark.  She  could  hear  the  swirling  of  the  wind  and  the 
beat  of  sleet  against  the  window-pane.  A  storm  was  rising. 
She  prayed  it  might  not  be  a  blizzard.  Weather  permit 
ting,  her  father  should  be  here  by  eight  or  nine  o'clock. 

West,  straddling  past,  snarled  at  her.  "Get  Angus 
McRae  outa  yore  head.  Him  an'  you's  come  to  the 
partin'  o'  the  ways.  You're  travelin'  with  me  now. 
Un'erstand?" 

His  partner,  sneering  coldly,  offered  a  suggestion. 
"  If  you  expect  to  travel  far  you  'd  better  get  your  webs 
to  hitting  snow.  This  girl  was  n't  out  looking  at  the 
traps  all  by  herself.  Her  trail  leads  straight  here.  Her 
friends  are  probably  headed  this  way  right  now." 


172  MAN-SIZE 

"Tha's  right."  West  stopped  in  his  stride.  His  slow 
brain  stalled.  "What  d'  you  reckon  I  better  do?  If 
there's  only  one  or  two  we  might  —  " 

"No,"  vetoed  Whaley.  "Nothing  like  that.  Your 
play  is  to  get  out.  And  keep  getting  out  when  they 
crowd  you.  No  killing." 

" Goddlemighty,  I'm  a  wolf,  not  a  rabbit.  If  they 
crowd  me,  I'll  sure  pump  lead,"  the  desperado  growled. 
Then,  "D'  you  mean  light  out  to-night?" 

"To-night." 

"Where '11 1  go?" 

"Porcupine  Creek,  I'd  say.  There's  an  old  cabin 
there  Jacques  Perritot  used  to  live  in.  The  snow '11  blot 
out  our  tracks." 

"Yougoin'too?" 

"I'll  see  you  that  far,"  Whaley  answered  briefly. 

"Better  bring  down  the  dogs  from  the  coulee, 
then." 

The  gambler  looked  at  him  with  the  cool  insolence 
that  characterized  him.  "When  did  I  hire  out  as  your 
flunkey,  West?" 

The  outlaw's  head  was  thrust  forward  and  down.  He 
glared  at  his  partner,  who  met  this  manifestation  of 
anger  with  hard  eyes  into  which  no  expression  crept. 
West  was  not  insane  enough  to  alienate  his  last  ally. 
He  drew  back  sullenly. 

"All  right.  I'll  go,  since  you're  so  particular."  As 
his  heavy  body  swung  round  awkwardly,  the  man's  eyes 
fell  on  Jessie.  She  had  lifted  one  small  foot  and  was 
starting  to  pull  on  one  of  the  duffle  stockings.  He  stood 
a  moment,  gloating  over  the  beautifully  shaped  ankle 


A  FORETASTE  OF  HELL  173 

and  lower  limb,  then  slouched  forward  and  snatched  her 
up  from  the  stool  into  his  arms. 

His  savage,  desirous  eyes  had  given  her  an  instant's 
warning.  She  was  half  up  before  his  arms,  massive  as 
young  trees,  dragged  her  into  his  embrace. 

"But  before  I  go  I'll  have  a  kiss  from  my  squaw,"  he 
roared.  "Just  to  show  her  that  Bully  West  has  branded 
her  and  claims  ownership." 

She  fought,  fiercely,  desperately,  pushing  against  his 
rough  bearded  face  and  big  barrel  chest  with  all  the 
force  in  her  lithe  young  body.  She  was  as  a  child  to  him. 
His  triumphant  laughter  pealed  as  he  crushed  her  warm 
soft  trunk  against  his  own  and  buried  her  in  his  opened 
coat.  With  an  ungentle  hand  he  forced  round  the  averted 
head  till  the  fear-filled  eyes  met  his. 

"Kiss  yore  man,"  he  ordered. 

The  girl  said  nothing.  She  still  struggled  to  escape, 
using  every  ounce  of  strength  she  possessed. 

The  fury  of  her  resistance  amused  him.  He  laughed 
again,  throwing  back  the  heavy  bristling  jaw  in  a  roar 
of  mirth. 

"Yore  man  —  yore  master,"  he  amended. 

He  smothered  her  with  his  foul  kisses,  ravished  her 
lips,  her  eyes,  the  soft  hot  cheeks,  the  oval  of  the  chin, 
and  the  lovely  curve  of  the  throat.  She  was  physically 
nauseated  when  he  flung  her  from  him  against  the  wall 
and  strode  from  the  room  with  another  horrible  whoop 
of  exultation. 

She  clung  to  the  wall,  panting,  eyes  closed.  A  shock 
ing  sense  of  degradation  flooded  her  soul.  She  felt  as 
though  she  were  drowning  in  it,  fathoms  deep. 


174  MAN-SIZE 

Her  lids  fluttered  open  and  she  saw  the  gambler.  He 
was  still  sitting  on  the  stool.  A  mocking,  cynical  smile 
was  in  the  eyes  that  met  Jessie's. 

"And  Tom  Morse  —  where,  oh,  where  is  he?"  the 
man  jeered. 

A  chill  shook  her.  Dry  sobs  welled  up  in  her  throat. 
She  was  lost.  For  the  first  time  she  knew  the  cold 
clutch  of  despair  at  her  heart.  Whaley  did  not  intend 
to  lift  a  hand  for  her.  He  had  sat  there  and  let  West 
work  his  will. 

"Angus  McRae  gave  me  instructions  aplenty,"  he 
explained  maliciously.  "I  was  to  keep  my  hands  of!  you. 
I  was  to  mind  my  own  business.  When  you  see  him 
again  —  if  you  ever  do  —  will  you  tell  him  I  did  exactly 
as  he  said?" 

She  did  not  answer.  What  was  there  to  say?  In  the 
cabin  was  no  sound  except  that  of  her  dry,  sobbing 
breath. 

Whaley  rose  and  came  across  the  room.  He  had 
thrown  aside  the  gambler's  mask  of  impassivity.  His 
eyes  were  shining  strangely. 

"I'm  going  —  now  —  out  into  the  storm.  What 
about  you?  If  you're  here  when  West  comes  back,  you 
know  what  it  means.  Make  your  choice.  Will  you  go 
with  me  or  stay  with  him?" 

"You're  going  home?" 

"Yes."  His  smile  was  enigmatic.  It  carried  neither 
warmth  nor  conviction. 

The  man  had  played  his  cards  well.  He  had  let 
West  give  her  a  foretaste  of  the  hell  in  store  for  her. 
Anything  rather  than  that,  she  thought.  And  surely 


A  FORETASTE  OF  HELL  175 

Whaley  would  take  her  home.  He  was  no  outlaw,  but  a 
responsible  citizen  who  must  go  back  to  Faraway  to  live. 
He  had  to  face  her  father  and  Winthrop  Beresford  of 
the  Mounted  —  and  Tom  Morse.  He  would  not  harm 
her.  He  dared  not. 

But  she  took  one  vain  precaution.  "You  promise  to 
take  me  to  my  father.  You'll  not  —  be  like  him."  A 
lift  of  the  head  indicated  the  man  who  had  just  gone  out. 

"He's  a  fool.  I'm  not.  That's  the  difference."  He 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Make  your  own  choice.  If 
you  'd  rather  stay  here  —  " 

But  she  had  made  it.  She  was  getting  hurriedly  into 
her  furs  and  was  putting  on  her  mittens.  Already  she 
had  adjusted  the  snowshoes. 

"We'd  better  hurry,"  she  urged.  "He  might  come 
back." 

"It'll  be  bad  luck  for  him  if  he  does,"  the  gambler 
said  coolly.  "You  ready?" 

She  nodded  that  she  was. 

In  another  moment  they  were  out  of  the  warm  room 
and  into  the  storm.  The  wind  was  coming  in  whistling 
gusts,  carrying  with  it  a  fine  sleet  that  whipped  the  face 
and  stung  the  eyeballs.  Before  she  had  been  out  in  the 
storm  five  minutes,  Jessie  had  lost  all  sense  of  direction. 

Whaley  was  an  expert  woodsman.  He  plunged  into 
the  forest,  without  hesitation,  so  surely  that  she  felt  he 
must  know  where  he  was  going.  The  girl  followed  at  his 
heels,  head  down  against  the  blast. 

Before  this  day  she  had  not  for  months  taken  a  long 
trip  on  webs.  Leg  muscles,  called  into  use  without  train 
ing,  were  sore  and  stiff.  In  the  darkness  the  soft  snow 


176  MAN-SIZE 

piled  up  on  the  shoes.  Each  step  became  a  drag.  The 
^lacings  and  straps  lacerated  her  tender  flesh  till  she 
knew  her  duffles  were  soaked  with  blood.  More  than 
once  she  dropped  back  so  far  that  she  lost  sight  of 
Whaley.  Each  time  he  came  back  with  words  of 
encouragement  and  good  cheer. 

"Not  far  now,"  he  would  promise.  "Across  a  little 
bog  and  then  camp.  Keep  coming." 

Once  he  found  her  sitting  on  the  snow,  her  back  to  a  tree. 

"You'd  better  go  on  alone.  I'm  done,"  she  told  him 
drearily. 

He  was  not  angry  at  her.  Nor  did  he  bully  or  brow 
beat. 

"Tough  sledding,"  he  said  gently.  "But  we're  'most 
there.  Got  to  keep  going.  Can't  quit  now." 

He  helped  Jessie  to  her  feet  and  led  the  way  down  into 
a  spongy  morass.  The  brush  slapped  her  face.  It  caught 
in  the  meshes  of  her  shoes  and  flung  her  down.  The  miry 
earth,  oozing  over  the  edges  of  the  frames,  clogged  her 
feet  and  clung  to  them  like  pitch. 

Whaley  did  his  best  to  help,  but  when  at  last  she 
crept  up  to  the  higher  ground  beyond  the  bog  every 
muscle  ached  with  fatigue. 

They  were  almost  upon  it  before  she  saw  a  log  cabin 
looming  out  of  the  darkness. 

She  sank  on  the  floor  exhausted.  Whaley  disappeared 
into  the  storm  again.  Sleepily  she  wondered  where  he 
was  going.  She  must  have  dozed,  for  when  her  eyes  next 
reported  to  the  brain,  there  was  a  brisk  fire  of  birch 
bark  burning  and  her  companion  was  dragging  broken 
bits  of  dead  and  down  timber  into  the  house. 


A  FORETASTE  OF  HELL  177 

"Looks  like  she's  getting  her  back  up  for  a  blizzard. 
Better  have  plenty  of  fuel  in,"  he  explained. 

"Where  are  we?"  she  asked  drowsily. 

"Cabin  on  Bull  Creek,"  he  answered.  "Better  get 
off  your  footwear." 

While  she  did  this  her  mind  woke  to  activity.  Why 
had  he  brought  her  here?  They  had  no  food.  How 
would  they  live  if  a  blizzard  blew  up  and  snowed  them 
in?  And  even  if  they  had  supplies,  how  could  she  live 
alone  for  days  with  this  man  in  a  cabin  eight  by 
ten? 

As  though  he  guessed  what  was  in  her  mind,  he 
answered  plausibly  enough  one  of  the  questions. 

"No  chance  to  reach  Faraway.  Too  stormy.  It  was 
neck  or  nothing.  Had  to  take  what  we  could  get." 

"What '11  we  do  if  —  if  there's  a  blizzard?"  she  asked 
timidly. 

"Sit  tight." 

"Without  food?" 

"If  it  lasts  too  long,  I'll  have  to  wait  for  a  lull  and 
make  a  try  for  Faraway.  No  use  worrying.  We  can't 
help  what's  coming.  Got  to  face  the  music." 

Her  eyes  swept  the  empty  cabin.  No  bed.  No  table. 
One  home-made  three-legged  stool.  A  battered  kettle. 
It  was  an  uninviting  prospect,  even  if  she  had  not  had 
to  face  possible  starvation  while  she  was  caged  with  a 
stranger  who  might  any  minute  develop  wolfish  hunger 
for  her  as  he  had  done  only  forty-eight  hours  before. 

He  did  not  look  at  her  steadily.  His  gaze  was  in  the 
red  glow  of  the  fire  a  good  deal.  She  talked,  and  he 
answered  in  monosyllables.  When  he  looked  at  her,  his 


178  MAN-SIZE 

eyes  glowed  with  the  hot  red  light  reflected  from  the  fire. 
Live  coals  seemed  to  burn  in  them. 

In  spite  of  the  heat  a  little  shiver  ran  down  her  spine. 

Silence  became  too  significant.  She  was  afraid  of  it. 
So  she  talked,  persistently,  at  times  a  little  hysterically. 
Her  memory  was  good.  If  she  liked  a  piece  of  poetry, 
she  could  learn  it  by  reading  it  over  a  few  times.  So, 
in  her  desperation,  she  "  spoke  pieces  "  to  this  man  whose 
face  was  a  gray  mask,  just  as  the  girls  had  done  at  her 
school  in  Winnipeg. 

Often,  at  night  camps,  she  had  recited  for  her  father. 
If  she  had  no  dramatic  talent,  at  least  she  had  a  sweet, 
clear  voice,  an  earnestness  that  never  ranted,  and  some 
native  or  acquired  skill  in  handling  inflections. 

"  Do  you  like  Shakespeare?  "  she  asked.  "  My  father 's 
very  fond  of  him.  I  know  parts  of  several  of  the  plays. 
*  Henry  V  now.  That's  good.  There's  a  bit  where  he's 
talking  to  his  soldiers  before  they  fight  the  French. 
Would  you  like  that?" 

"Go  on,"  he  said  gruffly,  sultry  eyes  on  the  fire. 

With  a  good  deal  of  spirit  she  flung  out  the  gallant 
lines.  He  began  to  watch  her,  vivid,  eager,  so  patheti 
cally  anxious  to  entertain  him  with  her  small  stock  of 
wares. 

"But,  if  it  be  a  sin  to  covet  honor, 
I  am  the  most  offending  soul  alive." 

There  was  about  her  a  quality  very  fine  and  taking. 
He  caught  it  first  in  those  two  lines,  and  again  when  her 
full  young  voice  swelled  to  English  Harry's  prophecy. 

"And  Crispin  Crispian  shall  ne'er  go  by, 
From  this  day  to  the  ending  of  the  world, 


A  FORETASTE  OF  HELL     •        179 

But  we  in  it  shall  be  remembered. 

We  few,  we  happy  few,  we  band  of  brothers: 

For  he  to-day  that  sheds  his  blood  with  me 

Shall  be  my  brother;  be  he  ne'er  so  vile, 

This  day  shall  gentle  his  condition: 

And  gentlemen  in  England  now  abed 

Shall  think  themselves  accurs'd  they  were  not  here, 

And  hold  their  manhoods  cheap  whiles  any  speaks 

That  fought  with  us  upon  Saint  Crispin's  day." 

As  he  watched  her,  old  memories  stirred  in  him.  He 
had  come  from  a  good  family  in  the  Western  Reserve, 
where  he  had  rough-and-tumbled  up  through  the  grades 
into  High  School.  After  a  year  here  he  had  gone  to  a 
Catholic  School,  Sacred  Heart  College,  and  had  studied 
for  the  priesthood.  He  recalled  his  mother,  a  gentle, 
white-haired  old  lady,  with  fond  pride  in  him;  his  father, 
who  had  been  the  soul  of  honor.  By  some  queer  chance 
she  had  lit  on  the  very  lines  that  he  had  learned  from  the 
old  school  reader  and  recited  before  an  audience  the  last 
day  prior  to  vacation. 

He  woke  from  his  reveries  to  discover  that  she  was 
giving  him  Tennyson,  that  fragment  from  "  Guinevere" 
when  Arthur  tells  her  of  the  dream  her  guilt  has  tar 
nished.  And  as  she  spoke  there  stirred  in  him  the  long- 
forgotten  aspirations  of  his  youth. 
'   ...  for  indeed  I  knew 
Of  no  more  subtle  master  under  heaven 
Than  is  the  maiden  passion  for  a  maid, 
Not  only  to  keep  down  the  base  in  man, 
But  teach  high  thought  and  amiable  words 
And  courtliness,  and  the  desire  of  fame, 
And  love  of  truth,  and  all  that  makes  a  man." 

His  eyes  were  no  longer  impassive.    There  was  in 


180  MAN-SIZE 

them,  for  the  moment  at  least,  a  hunted,  haggard  look. 
He  saw  himself  as  he  was,  in  a  blaze  of  light  that  burned 
down  to  his  very  soul. 

And  he  saw  her  too  transformed  —  not  a  half -breed, 
the  fair  prey  of  any  man's  passion,  but  a  clean,  proud, 
high-spirited  white  girl  who  lived  in  the  spirit  as  well 
as  the  flesh. 

"You're  tired.  Better  lie  down  and  sleep,"  he  told 
her,  very  gently. 

Jessie  looked  at  him,  and  she  knew  she  was  safe. 
She  might  sleep  without  fear.  This  man  would  not  harm 
her  any  more  than  Beresford  or  Morse  would  have  done. 
Some  chemical  change  had  occurred  in  his  thoughts 
that  protected  her.  She  did  not  know  what  it  was,  but 
her  paean  of  prayer  went  up  to  heaven  in  a  little  rush  of 
thanksgiving. 

She  did  not  voice  her  gratitude  to  him.  But  the  look 
she  gave  him  was  more  expressive  than  words. 

Out  of  the  storm  a  voice  raucous  and  profane  came 
to  them  faintly. 

"Ah,  crapaud  Wulf,  pren'  garde.  Yeu-oh!  (To  the 
right!)  Git  down  to  it,  Fox.  Sacre  demon!  Cha!  Cha! 
(To  the  left!)" 

Then  the  crack  of  a  whip  and  a  volley  of  oaths. 

The  two  in  the  cabin  looked  at  each  other.  One  was 
white  to  the  lips.  The  other  smiled  grimly.  It  was  the 
gambler  that  spoke  their  common  thought. 

"Bully  West,  by  all  that's  holy!" 


CHAPTER  XXIV 
WEST  MAKES  A  DECISION 

CAME  to  those  in  the  cabin  a  string  of  oaths,  the 
crack  of  a  whip  lashing  out  savagely,  and  the  yelps  of 
dogs  from  a  crouching,  cowering  team. 

Whaley  slipped  a  revolver  from  his  belt  to  the  right- 
hand  pocket  of  his  fur  coat. 

The  door  burst  open.  A  man  stood  on  the  threshold, 
a  huge  figure  crusted  with  snow,  beard  and  eyebrows 
ice-matted.  He  looked  like  the  storm  king  who  had 
ridden  the  gale  out  of  the  north.  This  on  the  outside, 
at  a  first  glance  only.  For  the  black  scowl  he  flung  at  his 
partner  was  so  deadly  that  it  seemed  to  come  red-hot 
from  a  furnace  of  hate  and  evil  passion. 

"Run  to  earth!"  he  roared.  "Thought  you'd  hole  up, 
you  damned  fox,  where  I  would  n't  find  you.  Thought 
you'd  give  Bully  West  the  slip,  you'n'  that  KT  hell-cat. 
Talk  about  Porcupine  Creek,  eh?  Tried  to  send  me 
mushin'  over  there  while  you'n'  her  —  ' 

What  the  fellow  said  sent  a  hot  wave  creeping  over 
the  girl's  face  to  the  roots  of  her  hair.  The  gambler  did 
not  speak,  but  his  eyes,  filmed  and  wary,  never  lifted 
from  the  other's  bloated  face. 

"Figured  I'd  forget  the  oF  whiskey  cache,  eh?  Fig 
ured  you  could  gimme  the  double-cross  an'  git  away  with 
it?  Hell's  hinges,  Bully  West's  no  fool!  He's  forgot 
more'n  you  ever  knew." 

The  man  swaggered  forward,  the  lash  of  the  whip 


182  MAN-SIZE 

trailing  across  the  puncheon  floor.  Triumph  rode  in  his 
voice  and  straddled  in  his  gait.  He  stood  with  his  back 
pto  the  fireplace  absorbing  heat,  hands  behind  him  and 
feet  set  wide.  His  eyes  gloated  over  the  victims  he  had 
trapped.  Presently  he  would  settle  with  both  of  them. 

"Not  a  word  to  say  for  yoreselves,  either  one  o'  you," 
he  jeered.  "  Good  enough.  I  '11  do  what  talkin'  Js  needed, 
then  I'll  strip  the  hide  off 'n  both  o'  you."  With  a  flirt 
of  the  arm  he  sent  the  lash  of  the  dog-whip  snaking  out 
toward  Jessie. 

She  shrank  back  against  the  wall,  needlessly.  It  was 
a  threat,  not  an  attack;  a  promise  of  what  was  to  come. 

"Let  her  alone."  They  were  the  first  words  Whaley 
had  spoken.  In  his  soft,  purring  voice  they  carried  out 
the  suggestion  of  his  crouched  tenseness.  If  West  was 
the  grizzly  bear,  the  other  was  the  forest  panther, 
more  feline,  but  just  as  dangerous. 

The  convict  looked  at  him,  eyes  narrowed,  head 
thrust  forward  and  down.  "WThat's  that?" 

"I  said  to  let  her  alone." 

West's  face  heliographed  amazement.   "  Meanin'  — ?  " 

"Meaning  exactly  what  I  say.  You '11  not  touch  her." 

It  was  a  moment  before  this  flat  defiance  reached  the 
brain  of  the  big  man  through  the  penumbra  of  his  men 
tal  fog.  When  it  did,  he  strode  across  the  room  with  the 
roar  of  a  wild  animal  and  snatched  the  girl  to  him.  He 
would  show  whether  any  one  could  come  between  him 
and  his  woman. 

In  three  long  steps  Whaley  padded  across  the  floor. 
Something  cold  and  round  pressed  against  the  back  of 
the  outlaw's  tough  red  neck. 


WEST  MAKES  A  DECISION          183 

"Drop  that  whip." 

The  order  came  in  a  low-voiced  imperative.  West 
hesitated.  This  man  —  his  partner  —  would  surely 
never  shoot  him  about  such  a  trifle.  Still  — 

"What 's  eatin'  you?  "  he  growled.  "Put  up  that  gun. 
You  ain't  fool  enough  to  shoot." 

"Think  that  hard  enough  and  you'll  never  live  to 
know  better.  Hands  off  the  girl." 

The  slow  brain  of  West  functioned.  He  had  been 
taken  wholly  by  surprise,  but  as  his  cunning  mind 
worked  the  situation  out,  he  saw  how  much  it  would  be 
to  Whaley's  profit  to  get  rid  of  him.  The  gambler  would 
get  the  girl  and  the  reward  for  West's  destruction.  He 
would  inherit  his  share  of  their  joint  business  and  would 
reinstate  himself  as  a  good  citizen  with  the  Mounted  and 
with  McRae's  friends. 

Surlily  the  desperado  yielded.  "All  right,  if  you're 
so  set  on  it." 

"Drop  the  whip." 

The  fingers  of  West  opened  and  the  handle  fell  to  the 
floor.  Deftly  the  other  removed  a  revolver  from  its 
place  under  the  outlaw's  left  armpit. 

West  glared  at  him.  That  moment  the  fugitive  made 
up  his  mind  that  he  would  kill  Whaley  at  the  first  good 
opportunity.  A  tide  of  poisonous  hatred  raced  through 
his  veins.  Its  expression  but  not  its  virulence  was  tem 
porarily  checked  by  wholesome  fear.  He  must  be  careful 
that  the  gambler  did  not  get  him  first. 

His  voice  took  on  a  whine  intended  for  good  fellow 
ship.  "I  reckon  I  was  too  pre-emtory.  O'  course  I  was 
sore  the  way  you  two  left  me  holdin'  the  sack.  Any  one 


184  MAN-SIZE 

would  V  been  now,  would  n't  they?   But  no  use  friends 
fallin'  out.    We  got  to  make  the  best  of  things." 

Whaley's  chill  face  did  not  warm.  He  knew  the  man 
with  whom  he  was  dealing.  When  he  began  to  butter  his 
phrases,  it  was  time  to  look  out  for  him.  He  would  for 
get  that  his  partner  had  brought  him  from  Faraway  a 
dog-team  with  which  to  escape,  that  he  was  supplying 
him  with  funds  to  carry  him  through  the  winter.  He 
would  remember  only  that  he  had  balked  and  humili 
ated  him. 

"Better  get  into  the  house  the  stuff  from  the  sled," 
the  gambler  said.  "And  we'll  rustle  wood.  No  telling 
how  long  this  storm '11  last." 

"Tha's  right,"  agreed  West.  "When  I  saw  them  sun 
dogs  to-day  I  figured  we  was  in  for  a  blizzard.  Too  bad 
you  did  n't  outfit  me  for  a  longer  trip." 

A  gale  was  blowing  from  the  north,  carrying  on  its 
whistling  breath  a  fine  hard  sleet  that  cut  the  eyeballs 
like  powdered  glass.  The  men  fought  their  way  to  the 
sled  and  wrestled  with  the  knots  of  the  frozen  ropes 
that  bound  the  load.  The  lumps  of  ice  that  had  gath 
ered  round  these  had  to  be  knocked  off  with  hammers 
before  they  could  be  freed.  When  they  staggered  into 
the  house  with  their  packs,  both  men  were  half-frozen. 
Their  hands  were  so  stiff  that  the  fingers  were  joint- 
less. 

They  stopped  only  long  enough  to  limber  up  the 
muscles.  Whaley  handed  to  Jessie  the  revolver  he  had 
taken  from  West. 

"Keep  this,"  he  said.  His  look  was  significant.  It 
told  her  that  in  the  hunt  for  wood  he  mignt  be  blinded 


WEST  MAKES  A  DECISION          185 

by  the  blizzard  and  lost.  If  he  failed  to  return  and  West 
came  back  alone,  she  would  know  what  to  do  with  it. 

Into  the  storm  the  two  plunged  a  second  time.  They 
carried  ropes  and  an  axe.  Since  West  had  arrived,  the 
gale  had  greatly  increased.  The  wind  now  was  booming 
in  deep,  sullen  roars  and  the  temperature  had  fallen 
twenty  degrees  already.  The  sled  dogs  were  nowhere 
to  be  seen  or  heard.  They  had  burrowed  down  into  the 
snow  where  the  house  would  shelter  them  from  the 
hurricane  as  much  as  possible. 

The  men  reached  the  edge  of  the  creek.  They  strug 
gled  in  the  frozen  drifts  with  such  small  dead  trees  as 
they  could  find.  In  the  darkness  Whaley  used  the  axe 
as  best  he  could  at  imminent  risk  to  his  legs.  Though 
they  worked  only  a  few  feet  apart,  they  had  to  shout  to 
make  their  voices  carry. 

"We  better  be  movin'  back,"  West  called  through  his 
open  palms.  "We  got  all  we  can  haul." 

They  roped  the  wood  and  dragged  it  over  the  snow  in 
the  direction  they  knew  the  house  to  be.  Presently  they 
found  the  sled  and  from  it  deflected  toward  the  house. 

Jessie  had  hot  tea  waiting  for  them.  They  kicked  off 
their  webs  and  piled  the  salvaged  wood  into  the  other 
end  of  the  cabin,  after  which  they  hunkered  down  before 
the  fire  to  drink  tea  and  eat  pemmican  and  bannocks. 

They  had  with  them  about  fifty  pounds  of  frozen  fish 
for  the  dogs  and  provisions  enough  to  last  the  three  of 
them  four  or  five  meals.  Whaley  had  brought  West 
supplies  enough  to  carry  him  only  to  Lookout,  where  he 
was  to  stock  for  a  long  traverse  into  the  wilds. 

As  the  hours  passed  there  grew  up  between  the  gam- 


186  MAN-SIZE 

bier  and  the  girl  a  tacit  partnership  of  mutual  defense. 
No  word  was  spoken  of  it,  but  each  knew  that  the  sulky 
brute  in  the  chimney  corner  was  dangerous.  He  would 
be  held  by  no  scruples  of  conscience,  no  laws  of  friend 
ship  or  decency.  If  the  chance  came  he  would  strike. 

The  storm  raged  and  howled.  It  flung  itself  at  the 
cabin  with  what  seemed  a  ravenous  and  implacable 
fury.  The  shriek  of  it  was  now  like  the  skirling  of  a 
thousand  bagpipes,  again  like  the  wailing  of  numberless 
lost  souls. 

Inside,  West  snored  heavily,  his  ill-shaped  head 
drooping  on  the  big  barrel  chest  of  the  man.  Jessie 
slept  while  Whaley  kept  guard.  Later  she  would  watch 
in  her  turn. 

There  were  moments  when  the  gale  died  down,  but 
only  to  roar  again  with  a  frenzy  of  increased  violence. 

The  gray  day  broke  and  found  the  blizzard  at  its 
height. 


CHAPTER  XXV 
FOR  THE  WEE  LAMB  LOST 

BERESFORD,  in  front  of  the  C.  N.  Morse  &  Company 
trading-post,  watched  his  horse  paw  at  the  snow  in 
search  of  grass  underneath.  It  was  a  sign  that  the  ani 
mal  was  prairie-bred.  On  the  plains  near  the  border 
grass  cures  as  it  stands,  retaining  its  nutriment  as  hay. 
The  native  pony  pushes  the  snow  aside  with  its  forefoot 
and  finds  its  feed.  But  in  the  timber  country  of  the 
North  grass  grows  long  and  coarse.  When  its  sap  dries 
out,  it  rots. 

The  officer  was  thinking  that  he  had  better  put  both 
horse  and  cariole  up  for  the  winter.  It  was  time  now  for 
dogs  and  sled.  Even  in  summer  this  was  not  a  country 
for  horses.  There  were  so  many  lakes  that  a  birch-bark 
canoe  covered  the  miles  faster. 

Darkness  was  sweeping  down  over  the  land,  and  with 
it  the  first  flakes  of  a  coming  storm.  Beresford  had 
expected  this,  for  earlier  in  the  day  he  had  seen  two 
bright  mock  suns  in  the  sky.  The  Indians  had  told  him 
that  these  sun  dogs  were  warnings  of  severe  cold  and 
probably  a  blizzard. 

Out  of  the  edge  of  the  forest  a  man  on  snowshoes 
came.  He  was  moving  fast.  Beresford,  watching  him 
idly,  noticed  that  he  toed  in.  Therefore  he  was  probably 
a  Cree  trapper.  But  the  Crees  were  usually  indolent 
travelers.  They  did  not  cover  ground  as  this  man  was 
doing. 


188  MAN-SIZE 

The  man  was  an  Indian.  The  soldier  presently  certi 
fied  his  first  guess  as  to  that.  But  not  until  the  native 
was  almost  at  the  store  did  he  recognize  him  as  Onistah. 

The  Blackfoot  wasted  no  time  in  leading  up  to  what 
he  had  to  say.  "Sleeping  Dawn  she  prisoner  of  Bully 
West  and  Whaley.  She  say  bring  her  father.  She  tell 
me  bring  him  quick." 

Beresford's  body  lost  its  easy  grace  instantly  and 
became  rigid.  His  voice  rang  with  sharp  authority. 

"Where  is  she?" 

"She  at  Jasper's  cabin  on  Cache  Creek.  She  fright 
ened." 

As  though  the  mention  of  Sleeping  Dawn's  name  had 
reached  him  by  some  process  of  telepathy,  Tom  Morse 
had  come  out  and  stood  in  the  door  of  the  store.  The 
trooper  wheeled  to  him. 

"Get  me  a  dog-team,  Tom.  That  fellow  West  has 
got  Jessie  McRae  with  him  on  Cache  Creek.  We've 
got  to  move  quick." 

The  storekeeper  felt  as  though  the  bottom  had 
dropped  out  of  his  heart.  He  glanced  up  at  the  lowering 
night.  " Storm  brewing.  We'll  get  started  right  away." 
Without  a  moment's  delay  he  disappeared  inside  the 
store  to  make  his  preparations. 

Onistah  carried  the  news  to  McRae. 

The  blood  washed  out  of  the  ruddy-whiskered  face 
of  the  Scot,  but  his  sole  comment  was  a  Scriptural 
phrase  of  faith.  "I  have  been  young,  and  now  am  old; 
yet  have  I  not  seen  the  righteous  forsaken  ..." 

It  was  less  than  half  an  hour  later  that  four  men  and 
a  dog-train  moved  up  the  main  street  of  Faraway  and 


FOR  THE  WEE  LAMB  LOST         189 

disappeared  in  the  forest.  Morse  broke  trail  and  McRae 
drove  the  tandem.  Onistah,  who  had  already  traveled 
many  miles,  brought  up  the  rear.  The  trooper  ex 
changed  places  with  Morse  after  an  hour's  travel. 

They  were  taking  a  short-cut  and  it  led  them  through 
dead  and  down  timber  that  delayed  the  party.  Tom  was 
a  good  axeman,  and  more  than  once  he  had  to  chop 
away  obstructing  logs.  At  other  times  by  main  strength 
the  men  lifted  or  dragged  the  sled  over  bad  places. 

The  swirling  storm  made  it  difficult  to  know  where 
they  were  going  or  to  choose  the  best  way.  They  floun 
dered  through  deep  snow  and  heavy  underbrush,  faces 
bleeding  from  the  whip  of  willow  switches  suddenly 
released  and  feet  so  torn  by  the  straps  of  the  snowshoes 
that  the  trail  showed  stains  of  blood  which  had  soaked 
from  the  moccasins. 

Onistah,  already  weary,  began  to  lag.  They  dared  not 
wait  for  him.  There  was,  they  felt,  not  a  moment  to  be 
lost.  McRae's  clean-shaven  upper  lip  was  a  straight, 
grim  surface.  He  voiced  no  fears,  no  doubts,  but  the 
others  knew  from  their  own  anxiety  how  much  he  must 
be  suffering. 

The  gale  increased.  It  drove  in  bitter  blasts  of  fine 
stinging  sleet.  When  for  a  few  hundred  yards  they  drew 
out  of  the  thick  forest  into  an  open  grove,  it  lashed  them 
so  furiously  they  could  scarcely  move  in  the  teeth  of  it. 

The  dogs  were  whimpering  at  their  task.  More  than 
once  they  stopped,  exhausted  by  the  wind  against  which 
they  were  battling.  Their  eyes  turned  dumbly  to 
McRae  for  instructions.  He  could  only  drive  them  back 
to  the  trail  Morse  was  breaking. 


190  MAN-SIZE 

The  train  was  one  of  the  best  in  the  North.  The  leader 
was  a  large  St.  Bernard,  weighing  about  one  hundred 
sixty  pounds,  intelligent,  faithful,  and  full  of  courage. 
He  stood  thirty-four  inches  high  at  his  fore  shoulder. 
Not  once  did  Cuffy  falter.  Even  when  the  others  quit, 
he  was  ready  to  put  his  weight  to  the  load. 

Through  the  howling  of  the  wind  Beresford  shouted 
into  the  ear  of  Morse.  "  Can't  be  far  now.  Question  is 
can  we  find  Jasper's  in  this  blizzard." 

Morse  shook  his  head.  It  did  not  seem  likely.  Far 
and  near  were  words  which  had  no  meaning.  A  white, 
shrieking  monster  seemed  to  be  hemming  them  in. 
Their  world  diminished  to  the  space  their  outstretched 
arms  could  reach.  The  only  guide  they  had  was  Cache 
Creek,  along  the  bank  of  which  they  were  traveling. 
Jasper's  deserted  cabin  lay  back  from  it  a  few  hundred 
yards,  but  Tom  had  not  any  data  to  tell  him  when  he 
ought  to  leave  the  creek. 

Cuffy  solved  the  problem  for  him.  The  St.  Bernard 
stopped,  refused  the  trail  Beresford  and  Morse  were 
beating  down  in  the  deep  snow.  He  raised  his  head, 
seemed  to  scent  a  haven,  whined,  and  tried  to  plunge  to 
the  left. 

McRae  came  forward  and  shouted  to  his  friends. 
"We'll  gi'e  Cuffy  his  head.  He'll  maybe  ken  mair  than 
we  do  the  nicht." 

The  trail-breakers  turned  from  the  creek,  occasionally 
stopping  to  make  sure  Cuffy  was  satisfied.  Through 
heavy  brush  they  forced  a  way  into  a  coulee.  The 
St.  Bernard  led  them  plump  against  the  wall  of  a 
cabin. 


FOR  THE  WEE  LAMB  LOST         191 

There  was  a  light  inside,  the  fitful,  leaping  glow  of 
fire  flames.  The  men  stumbled  through  drifts  to  the 
door,  McRae  in  the  lead.  The  Scotchman  found  the 
latch  and  flung  open  the  door.  The  other  two  followed 
him  inside. 

The  room  was  empty. 

At  first  they  could  not  believe  their  eyes.  It  was  not 
reasonable  to  suppose  that  any  sane  human  beings 
would  have  left  a  comfortable  house  to  face  such  a 
storm.  But  this  was  just  what  they  must  have  done. 
The  state  of  the  fire,  which  was  dying  down  to  hot  coals, 
told  them  it  had  not  been  replenished  for  hours.  West 
and  Whaley  clearly  had  decided  they  were  not  safe 
here  and  had  set  out  for  another  hiding-place. 

The  men  looked  at  each  other  in  blank  silence.  The 
same  thought  was  in  the  mind  of  all.  For  the  present 
they  must  give  up  the  pursuit.  It  would  not  be  possible 
to  try  to  carry  on  any  farther  in  such  a  blizzard.  Yet 
the  younger  men  waited  for  McRae  to  come  to  his  de 
cision.  If  he  called  on  them  to  do  more,  they  would 
make  a  try  with  him. 

"We'll  stay  here,"  Angus  said  quietly.  "Build  up 
the  fire,  lads,  and  we'll  cast  back  for  Onistah." 

Neither  of  the  others  spoke.  They  knew  it  must 
have  cost  the  Scotchman  a  pang  to  give  up  even  for 
the  night.  He  had  done  it  only  because  he  recognized 
that  he  had  no  right  to  sacrifice  all  their  lives  in 
vain. 

The  dogs  took  the  back  trail  reluctantly.  The  sled 
had  been  unloaded  and  was  lighter.  Moreover,  they 
followed  a  trail  already  broken  except  where  the  sweep 


192  MAN-SIZE 

of  the  wind  had  filled  it  up.  McRae  cheered  them  to 
their  work. 

"Up  wi'  ye,  Koona!  Guid  dog.  Cha,  cha!  You '11  be 
doin'  gran*  work,  Cuffy.  Marche!" 

Morse  stumbled  over  Onistah  where  he  lay  in  the 
trail.  The  Blackfoot  was  still  conscious,  though  he  was 
drowsing  into  that  sleep  which  is  fatal  to  Arctic  trav 
elers  caught  in  a  blizzard.  He  had  crawled  on  hands  and 
feet  through  the  snow  after  his  knees  failed  him.  It 
must  have  been  only  a  few  minutes  after  he  completely 
collapsed  that  they  found  him. 

He  was  given  a  gulp  or  two  of  whiskey  and  put  on  the 
sled.  Again  the  dogs  buckled  to  the  pull.  A  quarter  of 
an  hour  later  the  party  reached  the  cabin. 

Onistah  was  given  first  aid.  Feet  and  face  were 
rubbed  with  snow  to  restore  circulation  and  to  prevent 
frost-bite.  He  had  been  rescued  in  time  to  save  him 
from  any  permanent  ill  effects. 

In  the  back  of  all  their  minds  lay  a  haunting  fear. 
What  had  become  of  Jessie?  There  was  a  chance  that 
the  blizzard  had  caught  the  party  before  it  reached  its 
destination.  Neither  West  nor  Whaley  was  an  inex 
perienced  musher.  They  knew  the  difficulties  of  sub- 
Arctic  travel  and  how  to  cope  with  them.  But  the  storm 
had  blown  up  with  unusual  swiftness. 

Even  if  the  party  had  reached  safety,  the  girl's 
troubles  were  not  ended.  With  the  coming  of  darkness 
her  peril  would  increase.  As  long  as  Whaley  was  with 
West  there  was  hope.  The  gambler  was  cold-blooded  as 
a  fish,  but  he  had  the  saving  sense  of  sanity.  If  he  meant 
to  return  to  Faraway  —  and  there  was  no  reason  why 


FOR  THE  WEE  LAMB  LOST         193 

he  should  not  —  he  dared  not  let  any  harm  befall  the 
girl.  But  West  was  a  ruffian  unmitigated.  His  ruthless 
passion  might  drive  him  to  any  evil. 

In  front  of  the  fire  they  discussed  probabilities. 
Where  had  the  two  free  traders  taken  the  girl?  Not  far, 
in  the  face  of  such  a  storm.  They  canvassed  places 
likely  to  serve  as  retreats  for  West. 

Once  McRae,  speaking  out  of  his  tortured  heart, 
made  an  indirect  reference  to  what  all  of  them  were 
thinking.  He  was  looking  somberly  into  the  fire  as  he 
spoke. 

"Yea,  the  darkness  hideth  not  from  Thee,  but  the 
night  shineth  as  the  day:  the  darkness  and  the  light 
are  both  alike  to  Thee." 

He  found  in  his  religion  a  stay  and  comfort.  If  he 
knew  that  under  cover  of  darkness  evil  men  do  evil 
deeds,  he  could  reassure  himself  with  the  promise  that 
the  hairs  of  his  daughter's  head  were  numbered  and 
that  she  was  under  divine  protection. 

From  a  pocket  next  his  shirt  he  drew  a  small  package 
in  oilskin.  It  was  a  Bible  he  had  carried  many  years. 
By  the  light  of  the  leaping  flames  he  read  a  chapter  from 
the  New  Testament  and  the  twenty-third  Psalm,  after 
which  the  storm-bound  men  knelt  while  he  prayed  that 
God  would  guard  and  keep  safe  "the  wee  lamb  lost  in 
the  tempest  far  frae  the  fold." 

Morse  and  Beresford  were  tough  as  hickory  withes. 
None  in  the  North  woods  had  more  iron  in  the  blood 
than  they.  Emergencies  had  tested  them  time  and 
again.  But  neither  of  them  was  ashamed  to  kneel  with 
the  big  rugged  Scotchman  while  he  poured  his  heart  out 


194  MAN-SIZE 

in  a  petition  for  his  lass.  The  security  of  the  girl  whom 
all  four  loved  each  in  his  own  way  was  out  of  the  hands 
of  her  friends.  To  know  that  McRae  had  found  a  sure 
rock  upon  which  to  lean  brought  the  younger  men  too 
some  measure  of  peace. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 
A  RESCUE 

THE  gray  day  wore  itself  away  into  the  deeper  darkness 
of  early  dusk.  Like  a  wild  beast  attacking  its  prey,  the 
hurricane  still  leaped  with  deep  and  sullen  roars  at  the 
little  cabin  on  Bull  Creek.  It  beat  upon  it  in  wild,  swirl 
ing  gusts.  It  flung  blasts  of  wind,  laden  with  snow  and 
sleet,  against  the  log  walls  and  piled  drifts  round  them 
almost  to  the  eaves. 

Long  since  Whaley  had  been  forced  to  take  the  dogs 
into  the  cabin  to  save  them  from  freezing  to  death.  It 
was  impossible  for  any  of  the  three  human  beings  to 
venture  out  for  more  than  a  few  minutes  at  a  time.  Even 
then  they  had  to  keep  close  to  the  walls  hi  order  not  to 
lose  contact  with  the  house. 

When  feeding-time  came  the  dogs  made  pandemo 
nium.  They  were  half -famished,  as  teams  in  the  Lone 
Lands  usually  are,  and  the  smell  of  the  frozen  fish 
thawing  before  the  fire  set  them  frantic.  West  and 
Whaley  protected  Jessie  while  she  turned  the  fish.  This 
was  not  easy.  The  plunging  animals  almost  rushed  the 
men  off  their  feet.  They  had  to  be  beaten  back  cruelly 
with  the  whip-stocks,  for  they  were  wild  as  wolves  and 
only  the  sharpest  pain  would  restrain  them. 

The  half -thawed  fish  were  flung  to  them  in  turn. 
There  was  a  snarl,  a  snap  of  the  jaws,  a  gulp,  and  the 
fish  was  gone.  Over  one  or  two  that  fell  in  the  pack  the 
train  worried  and  fought,  with  sharp  yelps  and  growls, 


196  MAN-SIZE 

until  the  last  fragment  had  been  torn  to  pieces  and  dis 
appeared. 

Afterward  the  storm-bound  trio  drank  tea  and  ate 
pemmican,  still  fighting  back  the  pack.  West  laid  open 
the  nose  of  one  in  an  ugly  cut  with  the  iron-bound  end 
of  his  whip-butt.  Perhaps  he  was  not  wholly  to  blame. 
Many  of  the  dog-trains  of  the  North  are  taught  to  un 
derstand  nothing  but  the  sting  of  the  whip  and  will 
respond  only  to  brutal  treatment. 

The  second  night  was  a  repetition  of  the  first.  The 
three  were  divided  into  two  camps.  Whaley  or  Jessie 
McRae  watched  West  every  minute.  There  was  a  look 
in  his  eye  they  distrusted,  a  sulky  malice  back  of  which 
seemed  to  smoke  banked  fires  of  murderous  desire.  He 
lay  on  the  floor  and  slept  a  good  deal  in  short  cat-naps. 
Apparently  his  dreams  were  not  pleasant.  He  would 
growl  incoherently  through  set  teeth  and  clench  great 
hairy  fists  in  spasms  of  rage.  Out  of  these  he  wakened 
with  a  start  to  glare  around  suspiciously  at  the  others. 
It  was  clear  the  thought  was  in  the  back  of  his  mind 
that  they  might  destroy  him  while  he  was  asleep. 

Throughout  the  third  day  the  storm  continued  un 
abated.  Whaley  and  West  discussed  the  situation. 
Except  for  a  few  pounds  of  fish,  their  provisions  were 
gone.  If  the  blizzard  did  not  moderate,  they  would 
soon  face  starvation. 

During  the  night  the  wind  died  down.  Day  broke 
clear,  a  faint  and  wintry  sun  in  the  sky. 

To  West  the  other  man  made  a  proposal.  "Have  to 
get  out  and  hunt  food.  We'll  find  caribou  in  some  of 
the  coulees  along  the  creek.  What  say?" 


A  RESCUE  197 

The  convict  looked  at  him  with  sly  cunning.  "How 
about  this  girl?  Think  I  'm  gonna  leave  her  to  mush  out 
an'  put  the  police  on  my  trail?  No,  sir.  I'll  take  her 
snowshoes  with  me." 

Whaley  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  She  could  n't  find 
her  way  home  if  she  had  shoes.  But  please  yourself 
about  that." 

West's  shifty  gaze  slid  over  him.  The  proposal  of  a 
hunt  suited  him.  He  must  have  a  supply  of  food  to  carry 
him  to  Lookout.  Whaley  was  a  good  shot  and  an  expert 
trailer.  If  there  were  caribou  or  moose  in  the  vicinity, 
he  was  likely  to  make  a  kill.  In  any  event  there  would 
be  hundreds  of  white  rabbits  scurrying  through  the 
woods.  He  decided  craftily  to  make  use  of  the  gambler, 
and  after  he  was  through  with  him  — 

The  men  took  with  them  part  of  the  tea  and  enough 
fish  to  feed  the  dogs  once.  They  expected  to  find  game 
sufficient  to  supply  themselves  and  stock  up  for  a  few 
days.  Whaley  insisted  on  leaving  Jessie  her  rifle,  in 
order  that  she  might  shoot  a  rabbit  or  two  if  any  ven 
tured  near  the  cabin.  She  had  three  frozen  fish  and  a 
handful  of  tea. 

Before  they  started  Whaley  drew  Jessie  aside. 
" Can't  say  how  long  we'll  be  gone.  Maybe  two  days  — 
or  three.  You  '11  have  to  make  out  with  what  you  've  got 
till  we  get  back."  He  hesitated  a  moment,  then  his 
cold,  hard  eyes  held  fast  to  hers.  "Maybe  only  one  of 
us  will  come  back.  Keep  your  eyes  open.  If  there's 
only  one  of  us  —  and  it's  West  —  don't  let  him  get 
into  the  house.  Shoot  him  down.  Take  his  snowshoes 
and  the  team.  Follow  the  creek  down  about  five  miles, 


198  MAN-SIZE 

then  strike  southwest  till  you  come  to  Clear  Lake. 
You  know  your  way  home  from  there." 

Her  dark  eyes  dilated.  "Do  you  think  he  means  to 
—  to—?" 

The  man  nodded.  "He's  afraid  of  me  —  thinks  1 
mean  to  set  the  police  on  his  trail.  If  he  can  he'll  get 
rid  of  me.  But  not  yet  —  not  till  we've  got  a  couple  of 
caribou.  I'll  be  watching  him  all  the  time/' 

"How  can  you  watch  him  while  you're  hunting?" 

He  lifted  his  shoulders  in  a  shrug.  It  was  quite 
true  that  West  could  shoot  him  in  the  back  during  the 
hunt.  But  Whaley  knew  the  man  pretty  well.  He 
would  make  sure  of  meat  before  he  struck.  After  the  sled 
was  loaded,  Whaley  did  not  intend  to  turn  his  back  on 
the  fellow. 

Jessie  had  not  been  brought  up  in  the  North  woods 
for  nothing.  She  had  seen  her  brother  Fergus  make 
many  a  rabbit  snare.  Now  she  contrived  to  fashion  one 
out  of  some  old  strips  of  skin  she  found  in  the  cabin. 
After  she  had  bent  down  a  young  sapling  and  fastened 
it  to  a  fallen  log,  she  busied  herself  making  a  second 
one. 

Without  snowshoes  she  did  not  find  it  possibte  to 
travel  far,  but  she  managed  to  shoot  a  fox  that  adven 
tured  near  the  hut  in  the  hope  of  finding  something  to 
fill  its  lean  and  empty  paunch. 

Before  leaving,  Whaley  had  brought  into  the  house  a 
supply  of  wood,  but  Jessie  added  to  this  during  the  day 
by  hauling  birch  poles  from  the  edge  of  the  creek. 

Darkness  fell  early.  The  girl  built  up  a  roaring  fire 
and  piled  the  wood  up  against  the  door  so  that  nobody 


A  RESCUE  199 

could  get  in  without  waking  her.  The  rifle  lay  close  at 
hand.  She  slept  long  and  soundly.  When  she  shook  the 
drowsiness  from  her  eyes,  the  sun  was  shining  through 
the  window. 

She  breakfasted  on  stew  made  from  a  hind-quarter 
of  fox.  After  she  had  visited  her  snares  and  reset  one 
that  had  been  sprung,  she  gathered  balsam  boughs  for 
a  bed  and  carried  them  to  the  house  to  dry  before  the 
fire.  Whaley  had  left  her  a  small  hatchet,  and  with 
this  she  began  to  shape  a  snowshoe  from  a  piece  of  the 
puncheon  floor.  All  day  she  worked  at  this,  and  by 
night  had  a  rough  sort  of  wooden  ski  that  might  serve  at 
need.  With  red-hot  coals,  during  the  long  evening,  she 
burned  holes  in  it  through  which  to  put  the  straps.  The 
skin  of  the  fox,  cut  into  long  strips,  would  do  for  thongs. 
It  would  be  a  crude,  primitive  device,  but  she  thought 
that  at  a  pinch  she  might  travel  a  few  miles  on  it. 
To-morrow  she  would  make  a  mate  for  it,  she  decided. 

Except  for  the  bed  of  balsam  boughs,  her  arrange 
ments  for  the  night  were  just  as  they  had  been  the  first 
day.  Again  she  built  up  a  big  fire,  piled  the  wood  in 
front  of  the  door,  and  put  the  rifle  within  reach.  Again 
she  was  asleep  almost  at  once,  within  a  minute  of  the 
time  when  she  nestled  down  to  find  a  soft  spot  in  the 
springy  mattress  she  had  made. 

Jessie  worked  hard  on  the  second  ski.  By  noon  she 
had  it  pretty  well  shaped.  Unfortunately  a  small  split 
in  the  wood  developed  into  a  larger  one.  She  was  forced 
to  throw  it  aside  and  begin  on  another  piece. 

A  hundred  times  her  eyes  had  lifted  to  sweep  the  snow 
field  for  any  sign  of  the  hunters'  return.  Now,  looking 


200  MAN-SIZE 

out  of  the  window  without  much  expectation  of  seeing 
them,  her  glance  fell  on  a  traveler,  a  speck  of  black  on  a 
sea  of  white.  Her  heart  began  to  beat  a  drum  of  excite 
ment.  She  waited,  eyes  riveted,  expecting  to  see  a 
second  figure  and  a  dog-team  top  the  rise  and  show  in 
silhouette. 

None  appeared.  The  man  advanced  steadily.  He 
did  not  look  backward.  Evidently  he  had  no  companion. 
Was  this  lone  traveler  West? 

Jessie  picked  up  the  rifle  and  made  sure  that  it  was 
in  good  working  order.  A  tumultuous  river  seemed  to 
beat  through  her  temples.  The  pulses  in  her  finger-tips 
were  athrob. 

Could  she  do  this  dreadful  thing,  even  to  save  honor 
and  life,  though  she  knew  the  man  must  be  twice  a  mur 
derer?  Once  she  had  tried  and  failed,  while  he  stood 
taunting  her  with  his  horrible,  broken-toothed  grin. 
And  once,  in  the  stress  of  battle,  she  had  wounded  him 
while  he  was  attacking. 

The  moving  black  speck  became  larger.  It  came  to 
her  presently  with  certainty  that  this  was  not  West. 
He  moved  more  gracefully,  more  lightly,  without  the 

heavy  slouching  roll And  then  she  knew  he  was 

not  Whaley  either.  One  of  her  friends !  A  little  burst  of 
prayer  welled  out  of  her  heart. 

She  left  the  cabin  and  went  toward  the  man.  He 
waved  a  hand  to  her  and  she  flung  up  a  joyful  gesture 
in  answer.  For  her  rescuer  was  Onistah. 

Jessie  found  herself  with  both  hands  in  his,  biting  her 
lower  lip  to  keep  back  tears.  She  could  not  speak  for  the 
emotion  that  welled  up  in  her.  ' 


A  RESCUE  201 

"You  —  all  well?"  he  asked,  with  the  imperturbable 
facial  mask  of  his  race  that  concealed  all  emotion. 

She  nodded. 

"Good,"  he  went  on.  "Your  father  pray  the  Great 
Spirit  keep  you  safe." 

"Where  is  Father?" 

He  looked  in  the  direction  from  which  he  had  come. 
"  We  go  Jasper's  cabin  —  your  father,  red  soldier,  Amer 
ican  trader,  Onistah.  You  gone.  Big  storm  —  snow  — 
sleet.  No  can  go  farther.  Then  your  father  he  pray. 
We  wait  till  Great  Spirit  he  say,  'No  more  wind,  snow.' 
Then  we  move  camp.  All  search  —  go  out  find  you." 
He  pointed  north,  south,  east,  and  west.  "  The  Great 
Spirit  tell  me  to  come  here.  I  say,  'Sleeping  Dawn  she 
with  God,  for  Jesus'  sake,  Amen.' ': 

"You  dear,  dear  boy,"  she  sobbed. 

"So  I  find  you.  Hungry?" 

"No.  I  shot  a  fox." 

"Then  we  go  now."  He  looked  at  her  feet.  "Where 
your  snowshoes?" 

"West  took  them  to  keep  me  here.  I'm  making  a 
pair.  Come.  We'll  finish  them." 

They  moved  toward  the  house.  Onistah  stopped. 
The  girl  followed  his  eyes.  They  were  fastened  on  a 
laden  dog-train  with  two  men  moving  across  a  lake  near 
the  shore  of  which  the  cabin  had  been  built. 

Her  fear-filled  gaze  came  back  to  the  Indian.  "It's 
West  and  Mr.  Whaley.  What '11  we  do?" 

Already  he  was  kneeling,  fumbling  with  the  straps  of 
his  snowshoes.  "You  go  find  your  father.  Follow  trail 
to  camp.  Then  you  send  him  here.  I  hide  in  woods." 


202  MAN-SIZE 

"No  —  no.  They'll  find  you,  and  that  West  would 
shoot  you." 

"Onistah  know  tricks.  They  no  find  him." 

He  fastened  the  snow-webs  on  her  feet  while  she  was 
still  protesting.  She  glanced  again  at  the  dog-train 
jogging  steadily  forward.  If  she  was  going,  it  must  be 
at  once.  Soon  it  would  be  too  late  for  either  of  them  to 
escape. 

"You  will  hide  in  the  woods,  won't  you,  so  they  can't 
find  you?"  she  implored. 

He  smiled  reassurance.   "Go,"  he  said. 

Another  moment,  and  she  was  pushing  over  the  crust 
along  the  trail  by  which  the  Blackfoot  had  come. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

APACHE  STUFF 

THE  hunters  brought  back  three  caribou  and  two  sacks 
of  rabbits,  supplies  enough  to  enable  West  to  reach 
Lookout.  The  dogs  were  stronger  than  when  they  had 
set  out,  for  they  had  gorged  themselves  on  the  parts  of 
the  game  unfit  for  human  use. 

Nothing  had  been  said  by  either  of  the  men  as  to 
what  was  to  be  done  with  Jessie  McRae,  but  the  ques 
tion  was  in  the  background  of  both  their  thoughts,  just 
as  was  the  growing  anger  toward  each  other  that  con 
sumed  them.  They  rarely  spoke.  Neither  of  them  let 
the  other  drop  behind  him.  Neither  had  slept  a  wink 
the  previous  night.  Instead,  they  had  kept  themselves 
awake  with  hot  tea.  Fagged  out  after  a  day  of  hard 
hunting,  each  was  convinced  his  life  depended  on  wake- 
fulness.  West's  iron  strength  had  stood  the  strain  without 
any  outward  signs  of  collapse,  but  Whaley  was  stumbling 
with  fatigue  as  he  dragged  himself  along  beside  the  sled. 

The  bad  feeling  between  the  partners  was  near  the 
explosion  point.  It  was  bound  to  come  before  the  fugi 
tive  started  on  his  long  trip  north.  The  fellow  had  a 
single-track  mind.  He  still  intended  to  take  the  girl 
with  him.  When  Whaley  interfered,  there  would  be  a 
fight.  It  could  not  come  too  soon  to  suit  West.  His 
brooding  had  reached  the  point  where  he  was  morally 
certain  that  the  gambler  meant  to  betray  him  to  the 
police  and  set  them  on  his  track. 


204  MAN-SIZE 

Smoke  was  rising  from  the  chimney  of  the  hut.  No 
doubt  the  McRae  girl  was  inside,  waiting  for  them  with 
a  heart  of  fear  fluttering  in  her  bosom.  Whaley 's  thin 
lips  set  grimly.  Soon  now  it  would  be  a  show-down. 

There  was  a  moment's  delay  at  the  door,  each  hanging 
back  under  pretense  of  working  at  the  sled.  There  was 
always  the  chance  that  the  one  who  went  first  might 
get  a  shot  in  the  back. 

West  glanced  at  the  big  mittens  on  the  other's  hands, 
laughed  hardily,  and  pushed  into  the  cabin.  A  startled 
grunt  escaped  him. 

"She's  gone,"  he  called  out. 

"  Probably  in  the  woods  back  here  —  rabbit-shooting 
likely.  She  can't  have  gone  far  without  snowshoes," 
Whaley  said. 

The  big  man  picked  up  the  ski  Jessie  had  made. 
"Looky  here." 

Whaley  examined  it.  "She  might  have  made  a  pair 
of  'em  and  got  away.  Hope  so." 

The  yellow  teeth  of  the  convict  showed  in  a  snarl. 
"Think  I  don't  see  yore  game?  Playin'  up  to  McRae 
an'  the  red-coats.  I  would  n't  put  it  by  you  to  sell  me 
out. 

The  gambler's  ice-cold  eyes  bored  into  West.  Was 
it  to  be  now? 

West  was  not  quite  ready.  His  hands  were  cold  and 
stiff.  Besides,  the  other  was  on  guard  and  the  fugitive 
was  not  looking  for  an  even  break. 

"Oh,  well,  no  use  rowin'  about  that.  I  ain't  gonna 
chew  the  rag  with  you.  It'll  be  you  one  way  an'  me 
another  pretty  soon,"  he  continued,  shifty  eyes  dodging. 


APACHE  STUFF  205 

"About  the  girl  —  easy  to  find  out,  I  say.  She  sure 
did  n't  fly  away.  Must  'a'  left  tracks.  We'll  take  a 
look-see." 

Again  Whaley  waited  deferentially,  with  a  sardonic 
and  mirthless  grin,  to  let  the  other  pass  first.  There 
were  many  tracks  close  to  the  cabin  where  they  them 
selves,  as  well  as  the  girl,  had  moved  to  and  fro.  Their 
roving  glances  went  farther  afield. 

Plain  as  the  swirling  waters  in  the  wake  of  a  boat 
stretched  the  tracks  of  a  snowshoer  across  the  lower  end 
of  the  lake. 

They  pushed  across  to  examine  them  closer,  following 
them  a  dozen  yards  to  the  edge  of  the  ice-field.  The  sign 
written  there  on  that  white  page  told  a  tale  to  both  of 
the  observers,  but  it  said  more  to  one  than  to  the 
other. 

"Some  one's  been  here,"  West  cried  with  a  startled 
oath. 

"Yes,"  agreed  Whaley.  He  did  not  intend  to  give 
any  unnecessary  information. 

"An'  lit  out  again.  Must  'a'  gone  to  git  help  for  the 
girl." 

"Yes,"  assented  the  gambler,  and  meant  "No." 

What  he  read  from  the  writing  on  the  snow  was  this : 
Some  one  had  come  and  some  one  had  gone.  But  the 
one  who  had  come  was  not  the  one  who  had  gone.  An 
Indian  had  made  the  first  tracks.  He  could  tell  it  by 
the  shape  of  the  webs  and  by  the  way  the  traveler  had 
toed  in.  The  outward-bound  trail  was  different.  Some 
one  lighter  of  build  was  wearing  the  snowshoes,  some 
one  who  took  shorter  steps  and  toed  out. 


206  MAN-SIZE 

"See.  She  run  out  to  meet  him.  Here's  where  her 
feet  kept  sinkin'  in,"  West  said. 

The  other  nodded.  Yes,  she  had  hurried  to  meet  him 
but  that  was  not  all  he  saw.  There  was  the  impression 
of  a  knee  in  the  snow.  It  was  an  easy  guess  that  the 
man  had  knelt  to  take  off  the  shoes  and  adjust  them  to 
the  girl's  feet. 

"An'  here's  where  she  cut  off  into  the  woods,"  the 
convict  went  on.  "She 's  hidin'  up  there  now.  I 'm  hit- 
tin'  the  trail  after  her  hot-foot." 

Whaley's  derisive  smile  vanished  almost  before  it 
appeared.  What  he  knew  was  his  own  business.  If 
\Vest  wanted  to  take  a  walk  in  the  woods,  it  was  not 
necessary  to  tell  him  that  a  man  was  waiting  for  him 
there  behind  some  tree. 

"Think  I'll  follow  this  fellow,"  Whaley  said,  with  a 
lift  of  the  hand  toward  the  tracks  that  led  across  the 
lake.  "We've  got  to  find  out  where  he  went.  If  the 
Mounted  are  hot  on  our  trail,  we  want  to  know  it." 

"Sure."  West  assented  craftily,  eyes  narrowed  to 
conceal  the  thoughts  that  crawled  through  his  murder 
ous  brain.  "We  gotta  know  that." 

He  believed  Whaley  was  playing  into  his  hands.  The 
man  meant  to  betray  him  to  the  police.  He  would  never 
reach  them.  And  he,  Bully  West,  would  at  last  be  alone 
with  the  girl,  nobody  to  interfere  with  him. 

The  gambler  was  used  to  taking  chances.  He  took 
one  now  and  made  his  first  mistake  in  the  long  duel  he 
had  been  playing  with  West.  The  eagerness  of  the  fellow 
to  have  him  gone  was  apparent.  The  convict  wanted 
him  out  of  the  way  so  that  he  could  go  find  the  girl. 


APACHE  STUFF  207 

Evidently  he  thought  that  Whaley  was  backing  down 
as  gracefully  as  he  could. 

"I'll  start  right  after  him.  Back  soon,"  the  gambler 
said  casually. 

"Yes,  soon,"  agreed  West. 

Their  masked  eyes  still  clung  to  each  other,  wary  and 
watchful.  As  though  without  intent  Whaley  backed 
away,  still  talking  to  the  other.  He  wanted  to  be  out  of 
revolver  range  before  he  turned.  West  also  was  backing 
clumsily,  moving  toward  the  sled.  The  convict  wheeled 
and  slid  rapidly  to  it. 

Whaley  knew  his  mistake  now.  West's  rifle  lay  on  the 
sled  and  the  man  was  reaching  for  it. 

The  man  on  the  ice-field  did  the  only  thing  possible. 
He  bent  low  and  traveled  fast.  WThen  the  first  shot  rang 
out  he  was  nearly  a  hundred  fifty  yards  away.  He  crum 
pled  down  into  the  snow  and  lay  still. 

West's  hands  were  cold,  his  fingers  stiff.  He  had  not 
been  sure  of  his  aim.  Now  he  gave  a  whoop  of  triumph. 
That  was  what  happened  to  any  one  who  interfered 
with  Bully  WTest.  He  fired  again  at  the  still  huddled 
heap  on  the  lake. 

Presently  he  would  go  out  there  and  make  sure  the 
man  was  dead.  Just  now  he  had  more  important  busi 
ness,  an  engagement  to  meet  a  girl  in  the  woods  back 
of  the  house. 

"Got  him  good,"  he  told  himself  aloud.  "He  sure 
had  it  comin'  to  him,  the  damned  traitor." 

To  find  the  McRae  girl  could  not  be  difficult.  She 
had  left  tracks  as  she  waded  away  in  the  deep  snow. 
There  was  no  chance  for  her  to  hide.  Nor  could  she 


208  MAN-SIZE 

have  gone  far  without  webs.  The  little  catamount 
might,  of  course,  shoot  him.  He  had  to  move  carefully, 
not  to  give  her  an  opportunity. 

As  he  went  forward  he  watched  every  tree,  every 
stick  of  timber  behind  which  she  might  find  cover  to 
ambush  him.  He  was  not  of  a  patient  temperament,  but 
life  in  the  wilds  had  taught  him  to  subdue  when  he 
must  his  gusty  restlessness.  Now  he  took  plenty  of 
time.  He  was  in  a  hurry  to  hit  the  trail  with  his  train 
and  be  off,  but  he  could  not  afford  to  be  in  such  great 
haste  as  to  stop  a  bullet  with  his  body. 

He  called  to  her.  "Where  you  at,  Dawn?  I  ain't 
aimin'  to  hurt  you  none.  Come  out  an'  quit  devilin* 


me." 


Then,  when  his  wheedling  brought  no  answer,  he 
made  the  forest  ring  with  threats  of  what  he  would  do 
to  her  when  he  caught  her  unless  she  came  to  him  at 
once. 

Moving  slowly  forward,  he  came  to  the  end  of  the 
tracks  that  had  been  made  in  the  snow.  They  ended 
abruptly,  in  a  thicket  of  underbrush.  His  first  thought 
was  that  she  must  be  hidden  here,  but  when  he  had 
beat  through  it  half  a  dozen  times,  he  knew  this  was 
impossible.  Then  where  was  she? 

He  had  told  Whaley  that  she  could  not  fly  away.  But 
if  she  had  n't  flown,  what  had  become  of  her?  There 
were  no  trees  near  enough  to  climb  without  showing 
the  impressions  of  her  feet  in  the  snow  as  she  moved  to 
the  trunk.  He  had  an  uneasy  sense  that  she  was  watch 
ing  him  all  the  time  from  some  hidden  place  near  at 
hand.  He  looked  up  into  the  branches  of  the  trees. 


APACHE  STUFF  209 

They  were  heavy  with  snow  which  had  not  been  shaken 
from  them. 

West  smothered  a  laugh  and  an  oath.  He  saw  the 
trick  now.  She  must  have  back-tracked  carefully,  at 
each  step  putting  her  feet  in  exactly  the  same  place 
as  when  she  had  moved  forward.  Of  course!  The  tracks 
showed  where  she  had  brushed  the  deep  drifts  occasion 
ally  when  the  moccasin  went  in  the  second  time. 

It  was  slow  business,  for  while  he  studied  the  sign 
he  must  keep  a  keen  eye  cocked  against  the  chance  of 
a  shot  from  his  hidden  prey. 

Twice  he  quartered  over  the  ground  before  he  knew 
he  had  reached  the  place  where  the  back-tracking 
ceased.  Close  to  the  spot  was  a  pine.  A  pile  of  snow 
showed  where  a  small  avalanche  had  plunged  down. 
That  must  have  been  when  she  disturbed  it  on  the 
branches  in  climbing. 

His  glance  swept  up  the  trunk  and  came  to  a  halt. 
With  his  rifle  he  covered  the  figure  crouching  close  to 
it  on  the  far  side. 

"Come  down,"  he  ordered. 

He  was  due  for  one  of  the  surprises  of  his  life.  The 
tree-dweller  slid  down  and  stood  before  him.  It  was  not 
Jessie  McRae,  but  a  man,  an  Indian,  the  Blackfoot 
who  had  ridden  out  with  the  girl  once  to  spoil  his  tri 
umph  over  the  red-coat  Beresford. 

For  a  moment  he  stood,  stupefied,  jaw  fallen  and 
mouth  open.  "Whad  you  doin'  here?"  he  asked  at 
last. 

"No  food  my  camp.  I  hunt,"  Onistah  said. 

"Tha's  a  lie.  Where's  the  McRae  girl?" 


210  MAN-SIZE 

The  slim  Indian  said  nothing.  His  face  was  expres 
sionless  as  a  blank  wall. 

West  repeated  the  question.  He  might  have  been 
talking  to  a  block  of  wood  for  all  the  answer  he  received. 
His  crafty,  cruel  mind  churned  over  the  situation. 

"Won't  talk,  eh?  We'll  see  about  that.  You  got  her 
hid  somewheres  an'  I  'm  gonna  find  where.  I  Jll  not  stand 
for  yore  Injun  tricks.  Drop  that  gun  an'  marche  — 
back  to  the  cabin.  Un'erstand?" 

Onistah  did  as  he  was  told. 

They  reached  the  cabin.  There  was  one  thing  West 
did  not  get  hold  of  in  his  mind.  Why  had  not  the  Black- 
foot  shot  him  from  the  tree?  He  had  had  a  score  of 
chances.  The  reason  was  not  one  the  white  man 
would  be  likely  to  fathom.  Onistah  had  not  killed  him 
because  the  Indian  was  a  Christian.  He  had  learned  from 
Father  Giguere  that  he  must  turn  the  other  cheek. 

West,  revolver  close  at  hand,  cut  thongs  from  the 
caribou  skins.  He  tied  his  captive  hand  and  foot,  then 
removed  his  moccasins  and  duffles.  From  the  fire  he 
raked  out  a  live  coal  and  put  it  on  a  flat  chip.  This 
he  brought  across  the  room. 

"Changed  yore  mind  any?  Where's  the  girl?"  he 
demanded. 

Onistah  looked  at  him,  impassive  as  only  an  Indian 
can  be. 

"Still  sulky,  eh?  We'll  see  about  that."      , 

The  convict  knelt  on  the  man's  ankles  and  pushed 
the  coal  against  the  naked  sole  of  the  brown  foot. 

An  involuntary  deep  shudder  went  through  the 
Blackfoot's  body.  The  foot  twitched.  An  acrid  odor 


APACHE  STUFF 

of  burning  flesh  filled  the  room.  No  sound  came  from 
the  locked  lips. 

The  tormentor  removed  the  coal.  "I  ain't  begun  to 
play  with  you  yet.  I  'm  gonna  give  you  some  real  Apache 
stuff  'fore  I'm  through.  Where's  the  girl?  I'm  gonna 
find  out  if  I  have  to  boil  you  in  grease." 

Still  Onistah  said  nothing. 

West  brought  another  coal.  "We'll  try  the  other 
foot,"  he  said. 

Again  the  pungent  acrid  odor  rose  to  the  nostrils. 

"How  about  it  now?"  the  convict  questioned. 

No  answer  came.  This  time  Onistah  had  fainted. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 
"IS  A'  WELL  WF  YOU,  LASS?" 

JESSIE'S  shoes  crunched  on  the  snow-crust.  She  traveled 
fast.  In  spite  of  Onistah's  assurance  her  heart  was 
troubled  for  him.  West  and  Whaley  would  study  the 
tracks  and  come  to  at  least  an  approximation  of  the 
truth.  She  did  not  dare  think  of  what  the  gorilla-man 
would  do  to  her  friend  if  they  captured  him. 

And  how  was  it  possible  that  they  would  not  find 
him?  His  footsteps  would  be  stamped  deep  in  the  snow. 
He  could  not  travel  fast.  Since  he  had  become  a  Chris 
tian,  the  Blackfoot,  with  the  simplicity  of  a  mind  not 
used  to  the  complexities  of  modern  life,  accepted  the 
words  of  Jesus  literally.  He  would  not  take  a  human 
life  to  save  his  own. 

She  blamed  herself  for  escaping  at  his  expense.  The 
right  thing  would  have  been  to  send  him  back  again  for 
her  father.  But  West  had  become  such  a  horrible  ob 
session  with  her  that  the  sight  of  him  even  at  a  distance 
had  put  her  in  a  panic. 

From  the  end  of  the  lake  she  followed  the  trail  Onis- 
tah  had  made.  It  took  into  the  woods,  veering  sharply 
to  the  right.  The  timber  was  open.  Even  where  the 
snow  was  deep,  the  crust  was  firm  enough  to  hold. 

In  her  anxiety  it  seemed  that  hours  passed.  The  sun 
was  still  fairly  high,  but  she  knew  how  quickly  it  sank 
these  winter  days. 

She  skirted  a  morass,  climbed  a  long  hill,  and  saw 


IS  A'  WELL  WI'  YOU,  LASS?         213 

before  her  another  lake.  On  the  shore  was  a  camp.  A 
fire  was  burning,  and  over  this  a  man  stooping. 

At  the  sound  of  her  call,  the  man  looked  up.  He  rose 
and  began  to  run  toward  her.  She  snowshoed  down  the 
hill,  a  little  blindly,  for  the  mist  of  glad  tears  brimmed 
her  eyes. 

Straight  into  Beresford's  arms  she  went.  Safe  at  last, 
she  began  to  cry.  The  soldier  petted  her,  with  gentle 
words  of  comfort. 

"It's  all  right  now,  little  girl.  All  over  with.  Your 
father's  here.  See!  He's  coming.  We'll  not  let  anything 
harm  you." 

McRae  took  the  girl  into  his  arms  and  held  her  tight. 
His  rugged  face  was  twisted  with  emotion.  A  dam  of 
ice  melted  in  his  heart.  The  voice  with  which  he  spoke, 
broken  with  feeling,  betrayed  how  greatly  he  was 
shaken. 

"My  bairn!  Myweedawtie!  To  God  be  the  thanks." 

She  clung  to  him,  trying  to  control  her  sobs.  He 
stroked  her  hair  and  kissed  her,  murmuring  Gaelic  words 
of  endearment.  A  thought  pierced  him,  like  a  sword- 
thrust. 

He  held  her  at  arm's  length,  a  fierce  anxiety  in  his 
haggard  face.  "Is  a'  well  wi'  you,  lass?"  he  asked,  al 
most  harshly. 

She  understood  his  question.  Her  level  eyes  met  his. 
They  held  no  reservations  of  shame.  "All's  well  with 
me,  Father.  Mr.  Whaley  was  there  the  whole  time. 
He  stood  out  against  West.  He  was  my  friend."  She 
stopped,  enough  said. 

"The  Lord  be  thankit,"  he  repeated  again,  devoutly. 


214  MAN-SIZE 

Tom  Morse,  rifle  in  hand,  had  come  from  the  edge  of 
the  woods  and  was  standing  near.  He  had  heard  her 
first  call,  had  seen  her  go  to  the  arms  of  Beresf  ord  direct 
as  a  hurt  child  to  those  of  its  mother,  and  he  had  drawn 
reasonable  conclusions  from  that.  For  under  stress  the 
heart  reveals  itself,  he  argued,  and  she  had  turned 
simply  and  instinctively  to  the  man  she  loved.  He 
stood  now  outside  the  group,  silent.  Inside  him  too  a 
river  of  ice  had  melted.  His  haunted,  sunken  eyes  told 
the  suffering  he  had  endured.  The  feeling  that  flooded 
him  was  deeper  than  joy.  She  had  been  dead  and  was 
alive  again.  She  had  been  lost  and  was  found. 

"Where  have  you  been?"  asked  Beresf  ord.  "We've 
been  looking  for  days." 

"In  a  cabin  on  Bull  Creek.  Mr.  Whaley  took  me 
there,  but  West  followed." 

"How  did  you  get  away?" 

"We  were  out  of  food.  They  went  hunting.  West 
took  my  snowshoes.  Onistah  came.  He  saw  them  com 
ing  back  and  gave  me  his  shoes.  He  went  and  hid 
in  the  woods.  But  they'll  see  his  tracks.  They'll  find 
him.  We  must  hurry  back." 

"Yes,"  agreed  McRae.  "I'm  thinkin'  if  West  finds 
the  lad,  he'll  do  him  ill." 

Morse  spoke  for  the  first  time,  his  voice  dry  as  a  chip. 
"We'd  better  hurry  on,  Beresf  ord  and  I.  You  and  Miss 
McRae  can  bring  the  sled." 

McRae  hesitated,  but  assented.  There  might  be 
desperate  need  of  haste.  "That'll  be  the  best  way. 
But  you'll  be  carefu',  lad.  Yon  West's  a  wolf.  He'd 
as  lief  kill  ye  baith  as  look  at  ye." 


IS  A'  WELL  WF  YOU,  LASS?         215 

The  younger  men  were  out  of  sight  over  the  brow  of 
the  hill  long  before  McRae  and  Jessie  had  the  dogs 
harnessed. 

"You'll  ride,  lass,"  the  father  announced. 

She  demurred.  "We  can  go  faster  if  I  walk.  Let  me 
drive.  Then  you  can  break  trail  where  the  snow 's  soft." 

"No.  You'll  ride,  my  dear.  There's  nae  sic  a  hurry. 
The  lads  '11  do  what's  to  be  done.  On  wi'  ye." 

Jessie  got  into  the  cariole  and  was  bundled  up  to  the 
tip  of  the  nose  with  buffalo  robes,  the  capote  of  her  own 
fur  being  drawn  over  the  head  and  face.  For  riding  in 
the  sub-Arctic  winter  is  a  freezing  business. 

"Marche,"1  ordered  McRae. 

Cuffy  led  the  dogs  up  the  hill,  following  the  trail 
already  broken.  The  train  made  good  time,  but  to  Jes 
sie  it  seemed  to  crawl.  She  was  tortured  with  anxiety 
for  Onistah.  An  express  could  not  have  carried  her  fast 
enough.  It  was  small  comfort  to  tell  herself  that  Onis 
tah  was  a  Blackfoot  and  knew  every  ruse  of  the  woods. 
His  tracks  would  lead  straight  to  him  and  the  veriest 
child  could  follow  them.  Nor  could  she  persuade  her 
self  that  Whaley  would  stand  between  him  and  West's 
anger.  To  the  gambler  Onistah  was  only  a  nitchie. 

The  train  passed  out  of  the  woods  to  the  shore  of  the 
lake.  Here  the  going  was  better.  The  sun  was  down 
and  the  snow-crust  held  dogs  and  sled.  A  hundred 
fifty  yards  from  the  cabin  McRae  pulled  up  the  team. 
He  moved  forward  and  examined  the  snow. 

1  Most  of  the  dogs  of  the  North  were  trained  by  trappers  who  talked  French 
and  gave  commands  in  that  language.  Hence  even  the  Anglo-Saxon  drivers 
used  in  driving  a  good  many  words  of  that  language.  (W.  M.  R.) 


216  MAN-SIZE 

With  a  heave  Jessie  flung  aside  the  robes  that 
wrapped  her  and  jumped  from  the  cariole.  An  invisible 
hand  seemed  to  clutch  tightly  at  her  throat.  For  what 
she  and  her  father  had  seen  were  crimson  splashes  in 
the  white.  Some  one  or  something  had  been  killed  or 
wounded  here.  Onistah,  of  course!  He  must  have 
changed  his  mind,  tried  to  follow  her,  and  been  shot 
by  West  as  he  was  crossing  the  lake. 

She  groaned,  her  heart  heavy. 

McRae  offered  comfort.  "He'll  likely  be  only 
wounded.  The  lads  wouldna  hae  moved  him  yet  if  he'd 
no'  been  livin'." 

The  train  moved  forward,  Jessie  running  beside  Angus. 

Morse  came  to  the  door.  He  closed  it  behind  him. 

"Onistah?  "cried  Jessie. 

"He's  been  — hurt.  But  we  were  in  time.  He'll  get 
well." 

"West  shot  him?   We  saw  stains  in  the  snow." 

"No.   He  shot  Whaley." 

"Whaley?"  echoed  McRae. 

"Yes.  Wanted  to  get  rid  of  him.  Thought  your 
daughter  was  hidden  in  the  woods  here.  Afraid,  too, 
that  Whaley  would  give  him  up  to  the  North-West 
Mounted." 

"Then  Whaley 's  dead?"  the  Scotchman  asked. 

"No.  West  had  n't  time  right  then  to  finish  the  job. 
Pretty  badly  hurt,  though.  Shot  in  the  side  and  in  the 
thigh." 

"And  West?" 

"We  came  too  soon.  He  could  n't  finish  his  deviltry. 
He  lit  out  over  the  hill  soon  as  he  saw  us." 


IS  A'  WELL  WT  YOU,  LASS?         217 

They  went  into  the  house. 

Jessie  walked  straight  to  where  Onistah  lay  on  the 
balsam  boughs  and  knelt  beside  him.  Beresford  was 
putting  on  one  of  his  feet  a  cloth  soaked  in  caribou  oil. 

"What  did  he  do  to  you?"  she  cried,  a  constriction 
of  dread  at  her  heart. 

A  ghost  of  a  smile  touched  the  immobile  face  of  the 
native.  "Apache  stuff,  he  called  it." 

"But—" 

"West  burned  his  feet  to  make  him  tell  where  you 
were,"  Beresford  told  her  gently. 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  in  horror. 

"Good  old  Onistah.  He  gamed  it  out.  Wouldn't 
say  a  word.  West  saw  us  coming  and  hit  the  trail." 

"Is  he  — is  he— ?" 

"He's  gone." 

"I  mean  Onistah." 

"Suffering  to  beat  the  band,  but  not  a  whimper  out 
of  him.  He 's  not  permanently  hurt  —  be  walking 
around  in  a  week  or  two." 

"You  poor  boy ! "  the  girl  cried  softly,  and  she  put  her 
arm  under  the  Indian's  head  to  lift  it  to  an  easier  position. 

The  dumb  lips  of  the  Blackfoot  did  not  thank  her, 
but  the  dark  eyes  gave  her  the  gratitude  of  a  heart 
wholly  hers. 

All  that  night  the  house  was  a  hospital.  The  country 
was  one  where  men  had  learned  to  look  after  hurts 
without  much  professional  aid.  In  a  rough  way  Angus 
McRae  was  something  of  a  doctor.  He  dressed  the 
wounds  of  both  the  injured,  using  the  small  medical 
kit  he  had  brought  with  him. 


218  MAN-SIZE 

Whaley  was  a  bit  of  a  stoic  himself.  The  philosophy 
of  his  class  was  to  take  good  fortune  or  ill  undemonstra- 
tively.  He  was  lucky  to  be  alive.  Why  whine  about 
what  must  be? 

But  as  the  fever  grew  on  him  with  the  lengthening 
hours,  he  passed  into  delirium.  Sometimes  he  groaned 
with  pain.  Again  he  fell  into  disconnected  babble  of 
early  days.  He  was  back  again  with  his  father  and 
mother,  living  over  his  wild  and  erring  youth. 

"...Don't  tell  Mother.  I'll  square  it  all  right 
if  you  keep  it  from  her. . . .  Rotten  run  of  cards. 
Ninety-seven  dollars.  You'll  have  to  wait,  I  tell  you. 
. . .  Mother,  Mother,  if  you  won't  cry  like  that ..." 

McRae  used  the  simple  remedies  he  had.  In  them 
selves  they  were,  he  knew,  of  little  value.  He  must  rely 
on  good  nursing  and  the  man's  hardy  constitution  to 
pull  him  through. 

With  Morse  and  Beresford  he  discussed  the  best 
course  to  follow.  It  was  decided  that  Morse  should 
take  Onistah  and  Jessie  back  to  Faraway  next  day  and 
return  with  a  load  of  provisions.  Whaley's  fever  must 
run  its  period.  It  was  impossible  to  tell  yet  whether  he 
would  live  or  die,  but  for  some  days  at  least  it  would  not 
be  safe  to  move  him. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

NOT  GOING  ALONE 

" MORSE,  I've  watched  ye  through  four-five  days  of 
near-hell.  I  ken  nane  1 5d  rather  tak  wi'  me  as  a  lone 
companion  on  the  long  traverse.  You're  canny  an' 
you  're  bold.  That 's  why  I  'm  trustin'  my  lass  to  your 
care.  It's  a  short  bit  of  a  trip,  an'  far  as  I  can  see 
there 's  nae  danger.  But  the  fear 's  in  me.  That 's  the 
truth,  man.  Gie  me  your  word  you  '11  no'  let  her  oot 
o'  your  sight  till  ye  hand  her  ower  to  my  wife  at  Fara 
way." 

Angus  clamped  a  heavy  hand  on  the  young  man's 
shoulder.  His  blue  eyes  searched  steadily  those  of  the 
trader. 

"I'll  not  let  her  twenty  yards  from  me  any  time. 
That's  a  promise,  McRae,"  the  trader  said  quietly. 

Well  wrapped  from  the  wind,  Onistah  sat  in  the  cari- 
ole. 

Jessie  kissed  the  Scotchman  fondly,  laughing  at  him 
the  while.  "You're  a  goose,  Father.  I'm  all  right. 
You  take  good  care  of  yourself.  That  West  might  come 
back  here." 

"No  chance  of  that.  West  will  never  come  back  ex 
cept  at  the  end  of  a  rope.  He's  headed  for  the  edge  of 
the  Barrens,  or  up  that  way  somewhere,"  Beresford 
said.  "And  inside  of  a  week  I'll  be  north-bound  on  his 
trail  myself." 


220  MAN-SIZE 

Jessie  was  startled,  a  good  deal  distressed.  "  I  'd  let  him 
go.  He '11  meet  a  bad  end  somewhere.  If  he  never  comes 
back,  as  you  say  he  won't,  then  he'll  not  trouble  us." 

The  soldier  smiled  grimly.  "That 's  not  the  way  of  the 
Mounted.  Get  the  fellow  you're  sent  after.  That's  our 
motto.  I've  been  assigned  the  job  of  bringing  in  West 
and  I've  got  to  get  him." 

"You  don't  mean  you're  going  up  there  alone  to 
bring  back  that  —  that  wolf -man?" 

"Oh,  no,"  the  trooper  answered  lightly.  "I'll  have  a 
Cree  along  as  a  guide." 

"A  Cree,"  she  scoffed.  "What  good  will  he  be  if  you 
find  West?  He'll  not  help  you  against  him  at  all." 

"Not  what  he's  with  me  for.  I'm  not  supposed  to 
need  any  help  to  bring  back  one  man." 

"It's  —  it's  just  suicide  to  go  after  him  alone,"  she 
persisted.  "Look  what  he  did  to  the  guard  at  the  prison, 
to  Mr.  Whaley,  to  Onistah!  He's  just  awful  —  hardly 
human." 

"The  lad's  under  orders,  lass,"  McRae  told  her. 
"Gin  they  send  him  into  the  North  after  West,  he'll 
just  have  to  go.  He  canna  argy-bargy  aboot  it." 

Jessie  gave  up,  reluctantly. 

The  little  cavalcade  started.  Morse  drove.  The  girl 
brought  up  the  rear. 

Her  mind  was  still  on  the  hazard  of  the  journey 
Beresford  must  take.  When  Morse  stopped  to  rest  the 
dogs  for  a  few  moments,  she  tucked  up  Onistah  again 
and  recurred  to  the  subject. 

"I  don't  think  Win  Beresford  should  go  after  West 
alone  except  for  a  Cree  guide.  The  Inspector  ought  to 


NOT  GOING  ALONE  £21 

send  another  constable  with  him.  Or  two  more.  If  he 
knew  that  man  —  how  cruel  and  savage  he  is  —  " 

Tom  Morse  spoke  quietly.  "He's  not  going  alone. 
I '11  be  with  him." 

She  stared.   "You?" 

"Yes.  Sworn  in  as  a  deputy  constable." 

"But  —  he  did  n't  say  you  were  going  when  I  spoke 
to  him  about  it  a  little  while  ago." 

"He  did  n't  know.   I've  made  up  my  mind  since." 

In  point  of  fact  he  had  come  to  a  decision  three 
seconds  before  he  announced  it. 

Her  soft  eyes  applauded  him.  "That'll  be  fine.  His 
friends  won't  worry  so  much  if  you're  with  him.  But  — 
of  course  you  know  it  '11  be  a  horrible  trip  —  and  dan 
gerous." 

"No  picnic,"  he  admitted. 

She  continued  to  look  at  him,  her  cheeks  flushed  and 
her  face  vivid.  "You  must  like  Win  a  lot.  Not  many 
men  would  go." 

"  We  're  good  friends,"  Morse  answered  dryly.  "Any 
how,  I  owe  West  something  on  my  own  account." 

The  real  reason  why  he  was  going  he  had  not  given. 
During  the  days  she  had  been  lost  he  had  been  on  the 
rack  of  torture.  He  did  not  want  her  to  suffer  months 
of  such  mental  distress  while  the  man  she  loved  was 
facing  alone  the  peril  of  his  grim  work  in  the  white 
Arctic  desert. 

They  resumed  the  journey. 

Jessie  said  no  more.  She  would  not  mention  the  sub 
ject  again  probably.  But  it  would  be  a  great  deal  in 
her  thoughts.  She  lived  much  of  the  time  inside  herself 


MAN-SIZE 

with  her  own  imagination.  This  had  the  generosity  and 
the  enthusiasm  of  youth.  She  wanted  to  believe  people 
fine  and  good  and  true.  It  warmed  her  to  discover  un 
expected  virtues  in  them. 

Mid-afternoon  brought  them  to  Faraway.  They 
drove  down  the  main  street  of  the  village  to  McRae's 
house  while  the  half-breeds  cheered  from  the  door  of  the 
Morse  store. 

Jessie  burst  into  the  big  family  room  where  Matapi- 
Korna  sat  bulging  out  from  the  only  rocking-chair  in 
the  North  woods. 

"Oh,  Mother  —  Mother!"  the  girl  cried,  and  hugged 
the  Cree  woman  with  all  the  ardent  young  savagery  of 
her  nature. 

The  Indian  woman's  fat  face  crinkled  to  an  expansive 
smile.  She  had  stalwart  sons  of  her  own,  but  no  daugh 
ters  except  this  adopted  child.  Jessie  was  very  dear  to 
her. 

In  a  dozen  sentences  the  girl  poured  out  her  story, 
the  words  tumbling  pell-mell  over  each  other  in  head 
long  haste. 

Matapi-Koma  waddled  out  to  the  sled.  "Onistah 
stay  here,"  she  said,  and  beamed  on  him.  "Blackfoot 
all  same  Cree  to  Matapi-Koma  when  he  friend  Jessie. 
Angus  send  word  nurse  him  till  he  well  again." 

Tom  carried  the  Indian  into  the  house  so  that  his 
feet  would  not  touch  the  ground.  Jessie  had  stayed  in 
to  arrange  the  couch  where  Fergus  usually  slept. 

She  followed  Morse  to  the  door  when  he  left.  "We'll 
have  some  things  to  send  back  to  Father  when  you  go. 
I'll  bring  them  down  to  the  store  to-morrow  morning," 


NOT  GOING  ALONE  223 

she  said.    "And  Mother  wants  you  to  come  to  supper 
to-night.   Don't  you  dare  say  you're  too  busy." 

He  smiled  at  the  intimate  feminine  fierceness  of  the 
injunction.  The  last  few  hours  had  put  them  on  a  some 
what  different  footing.  He  would  accept  such  largesse 
as  she  was  willing  to  offer.  He  recognized  the  spirit  in 
which  it  was  given.  She  wanted  to  show  her  apprecia 
tion  of  what  he  had  done  for  her  and  was  about  to  do 
for  the  man  she  loved.  Nor  would  Morse  meet  her  gen 
erosity  in  a  churlish  spirit. 

"I'll  be  here  when  the  gong  rings,"  he  told  her 
heartily. 

"Let's  see.  It 's  nearly  three  now.  Say  five  o'clock," 
she  decided. 

"At  five  I'll  be  knockin'  on  the  door." 

She  flashed  at  him  a  glance  both  shy  and  daring. 
"And  I'll  open  it  before  you  break  through  and  bring 
it  with  you." 

The  trader  went  away  with  a  queer  warmth  in  his 
heart  he  had  not  known  for  many  a  day.  The  facts  did 
not  justify  this  elation,  this  swift  exhilaration  of  blood, 
but  to  one  who  has  starved  for  long  -any  .food  «is 
grateful. 

Jessie  flew  back  into  the  house.  She  had  a  busy  two 
hours  before  her.  "Mother,  Mr.  Morse  as  coming  to 
dinner.  What's  in  the  house?" 

"Fergus  brought  a  black-tail  in  ^yesterday." 

"Good.  I  know  what  I'll  have.  But  first  off,  I  want 
a  bath.  Lots  of  hot  water,  and  all  foamy  with  soap. 
I  've  got  to  hurry.  You  can  peel  the  potatoes  if  you  like. 
And  fix  some  of  those  young  onions.  They're  nice. 


224  MAN-SIZE 

And  Mother  —  I'll  let  you  make  the  biscuits.  That's 
all.  I'll  do  the  rest." 

The  girl  touched  a  match  to  the  fire  that  was  set  in 
her  room.  She  brought  a  tin  tub  and  hot  water  and 
towels.  Slim  and  naked  she  stood  before  the  roaring 
logs  and  reveled  in  her  bath.  The  sense  of  cleanliness 
was  a  luxury  delicious.  When  she  had  dressed  herself 
from  the  soles  of  her  feet  up  in  clean  clothes,  she  felt  a 
new  and  self-respecting  woman. 

She  did  not  pay  much  attention  to  the  psychology  of 
dress,  but  she  knew  that  when  she  had  on  the  pretty 
plaid  that  had  come  from  Fort  Benton,  and  when  her 
heavy  black  hair  was  done  up  just  right,  she  had  twice 
the  sex  confidence  she  felt  in  old  togs.  Jessie  would  have 
denied  indignantly  that  she  was  a  coquette.  None  the 
less  she  was  intent  on  conquest.  She  wanted  this  quiet, 
self-contained  American  to  like  her. 

The  look  she  had  seen  in  his  red-brown  eyes  at  times 
tantalized  her.  She  could  not  read  it.  That  some  cur 
rent  of  feeling  about  her  raced  deep  in  him  she  divined, 
but  she  did  not  know  what  it  was.  He  had  a  way  of 
letting  his  steady  gaze  rest  on  her  disturbingly.  What 
was  he  thinking?  Did  he  despise  her?  Was  he,  away 
down  out  of  sight,  the  kind  of  man  toward  women  that 
West  and  Whaley  were?  She  would  n't  believe  it.  He 
had  never  taken  an  Indian  woman  to  live  with  him. 
There  was  not  even  a  rumor  that  he  had  ever  taken  an 
interest  in  any  Cree  girl.  Of  course  she  did  not  like  him 

—  not  the  way  she  did  W7in  Beresford  or  even  Onistah 

—  but  she  was  glad  he  held  himself  aloof.  It  would  have 
greatly  disappointed  her  to  learn  of  any  sordid  intrigue 
involving  him. 


NOT  GOING  ALONE 

Jessie  rolled  up  her  sleeves  and  put  on  a  big  apron. 
She  saw  that  the  onions  and  the  potatoes  were  started 
and  the  venison  ready  for  broiling.  From  a  chest  of 
drawers  she  brought  one  of  the  new  white  linen  table 
cloths  of  which  she  was  inordinately  proud.  She  would 
not  trust  any  one  but  herself  to  set  the  table.  Morse 
had  come  from  a  good  family.  He  knew  about  such 
things.  She  was  not  going  to  let  him  go  away  thinking 
Angus  McRae's  family  were  barbarians,  even  though  his 
wife  was  a  Cree  and  his  children  of  the  half-blood. 

On  the  table  she  put  a  glass  dish  of  wild-strawberry 
jam.  In  the  summer  she  had  picked  the  fruit  herself, 
just  as  she  had  gathered  the  saskatoon  berries  sprinkled 
through  the  pemmican  she  was  going  to  use  for  the 
rubaboo. 


CHAPTER  XXX 
"M"  FOR  MORSE 

Two  in  the  village  bathed  that  day.  The  other  was  Tom 
Morse.  He  discarded  his  serviceable  moccasins,  his 
caribou-skin  capote  with  the  fur  on,  his  moose-skin 
trousers,  and  his  picturesque  blanket  shirt.  For  these 
he  substituted  the  ungainly  clothes  of  civilization,  a  pair 
of  square-toed  boots,  a  store  suit,  a  white  shirt. 

This  was  not  the  way  Faraway  dressed  for  gala  oc 
casions,  but  in  several  respects  the  trader  did  not  choose 
to  follow  the  habits  of  the  North.  At  times  he  liked  to 
remind  himself  that  he  was  an  American  and  not  a 
French  half-breed  born  in  the  woods. 

As  he  had  promised,  he  was  at  the  McRaes*  by  the 
appointed  hour.  Jessie  opened  to  his  knock. 

The  girl  almost  took  his  breath.  He  had  not  realized 
how  attractive  she  was.  In  her  rough  outdoor  costumes 
she  had  a  certain  nai've  boyishness,  a  very  taking  qual 
ity  of  vital  energy  that  was  sexless.  But  in  the  house 
dress  she  was  wearing  now,  Jessie  was  wholly  feminine. 
The  little  face,  cameo-fine  and  clear-cut,  the  slender 
body,  willow-straight,  had  the  soft  rounded  curves  that 
were  a  joy  to  the  eye.  He  had  always  thought  of  her  as 
dark,  but  to  his  surprise  he  found  her  amazingly  fair 
for  one  of  the  metis  blood. 

A  dimpled  smile  flashed  him  welcome.  "You  did 
come,  then?" 


"M"  FOR  MORSE 

"Is  it  the  wrong  night?  Were  n't  you  expectin'  me? " 
he  asked  in  pretended  alarm. 

"I  was  and  I  wasn't.  It  wouldn't  have  surprised 
me  if  you  had  decided  you  were  too  busy  to  come." 

"Not  when  Miss  Jessie  McRae  invites  me." 

"She  invited  you  once  before,"  the  girl  reminded  him. 

"Then  she  asked  me  because  she  thought  she  ought. 
Is  that  why  I'm  asked  this  time?" 

She  laughed.  "You  must  n't  look  a  gift  dinner  in  the 
mouth." 

They  were  by  this  time  in  the  big  family  room.  She 
relieved  him  of  his  coat.  He  walked  over  to  the  couch 
upon  which  Onistah  lay. 

"How  goes  it?  Tough  sleddin'?"  he  asked. 

The  bronze  face  of  the  Blackfoot  was  immobile.  He 
must  still  have  been  in  great  pain  from  the  burnt  feet, 
but  he  gave  no  sign  of  it. 

"Onistah  find  good  friends,"  he  answered  simply. 

Tom  looked  round  the  room,  and  again  there  came  to 
him  the  sense  of  home.  Logs  roared  and  snapped  in 
the  great  fireplace.  The  table,  set  with  the  dishes  and 
the  plated  silver  McRae  had  imported  from  the  States, 
stirred  in  him  a  pleasure  that  was  almost  poignant.  The 
books,  the  organ,  the  quaint  old  engravings  Angus  had 
brought  with  him  when  he  crossed  the  ocean:  all  of 
these  touched  the  trader  nearly.  He  was  in  exile,  living 
a  bachelor  life  under  the  most  primitive  conditions. 
The  atmosphere  of  this  house  penetrated  to  every  fiber 
of  his  being.  It  filled  him  with  an  acute  hunger.  Here 
were  love  and  friendly  intercourse  and  all  the  daily, 
homely  routine  that  made  life  beautiful. 


228  MAN-SIZE 

And  here  was  the  girl  that  he  loved,  vivid,  vital,  fufi 
of  charm.  The  swift  deftness  and  grace  of  her  move 
ments  enticed  him.  The  inflections  of  her  warm,  young 
voice  set  his  pulses  throbbing  as  music  sometimes  did. 
An  ardent  desire  of  her  flooded  him.  She  was  the  most 
winsome  creature  under  heaven  — -  but  she  was  not  for 
him. 

Matapi-Koma  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table,  a  smiling 
and  benignant  matron  finished  in  copper.  She  had  on 
her  best  dress,  a  beaded  silk  with  purple  satin  trim 
mings,  brought  by  a  Red  River  cart  from  Winnipeg, 
accompanied  with  a  guarantee  from  the  trader  that 
Queen  Victoria  had  none  better.  The  guarantee  was 
worth  what  it  was  worth,  but  Matapi-Koma  was  satis 
fied.  Never  had  she  seen  anything  so  grand.  That  An 
gus  McRae  could  afford  to  buy  it  for  her  proved  him  a 
great  chief. 

Jessie  waited  on  the  table  herself.  She  set  upon  it 
such  a  dinner  as  neither  of  her  guests  had  eaten  in 
years.  Venison  broiled  to  a  turn,  juicy,  succulent  mal 
lard  ducks  from  the  cold  storage  of  their  larder,  mashed 
potatoes  with  gravy,  young  boiled  onions  from  Whoop- 
Up,  home-made  rubaboo  of  delicious  flavor,  hot  bis 
cuits  and  wild-strawberry  jam!  And  finally,  with  the 
tea,  a  brandy-flavored  plum  pudding  that  an  old  Eng 
lish  lady  at  Winnipeg  had  taught  Jessie  how  to  make. 

Onistah  ate  lying  on  the  couch.  Afterward,  filled  to 
repletion,  with  the  sense  of  perfect  contentment  a  good 
dinner  brings,  the  two  young  men  stuffed  their  pipes 
and  puffed  strata  of  smoke  toward  the  log  rafters  of 
the  room.  Jessie  cleared  the  table,  then  sat  down  and 


"M"  FOR  MORSE  229 

put  the  last  stitches  in  the  gun-case  she  had  been  work 
ing  at  intermittently  for  a  month.  It  was  finished,  but 
she  had  not  till  now  stitched  the  initials  into  the  cloth. 

As  the  swift  fingers  of  the  girl  flashed  back  and  forth, 
both  men  watched,  not  too  obviously,  the  profile  shad 
owed  by  the  dark,  abundant,  shining  hair.  The  picture 
of  her  was  an  intimate  one,  but  Tom's  tricky  imagina 
tion  tormented  him  with  one  of  still  nearer  personal 
association.  He  saw  her  in  his  own  house,  before  his 
own  fireside,  a  baby  clinging  to  her  skirt.  Then,  reso 
lutely,  he  put  the  mental  etcking  behind  him.  She  loved 
his  friend  Beresford,  a  man  out  of  a  thousand,  and  of 
course  he  loved  her.  Had  he  not  seen  her  go  straight  to 
his  arms  after  her  horrible  experience  with  West? 

Matapi-Koma  presently  waddled  out  of  the  room  and 
they  could  hear  the  clatter  of  dishes. 

"I  told  her  I'd  help  her  wash  them  if  she'd  wait," 
explained  Jessie.  "But  she'd  rather  do  them  now  and 
go  to  bed.  My  conscience  is  clear,  anyhow."  She  added 
with  a  little  bubble  of  laughter,  "And  I  don't  have  to 
do  the  work.  Is  that  the  kind  of  a  conscience  you  have, 
Mr.  Morse?" 

"If  I  were  you  my  conscience  would  tell  me  that  I 
could  n't  go  and  leave  my  guests,"  he  answered. 

She  raked  him  with  a  glance  of  merry  derision.  "Oh, 
I  know  how  yours  works.  I  would  n't  have  it  for  any 
thing.  It's  an  awf'lly  bossy  one.  It's  sending  you  out 
to  the  Barrens  with  Win  Beresford  just  because  he 's 
your  friend." 

'Not  quite.   I  have  another  reason  too,"  he  replied. 

"Yes,  I  know.   You  don't  like  West.   Nobody  does. 


230  MAN-SIZE 

My  father  does  n't  —  or  Fergus  —  or  Mr.  Whaley  — 
but  they  're  not  taking  the  long  trail  after  him  as  you 
are.  You  can't  get  out  of  it  that  way." 

She  had  not,  of  course,  hit  on  the  real  reason  for 
going  that  supplemented  his  friendship  for  the  con 
stable  and  he  did  not  intend  that  she  should. 

"It  does  n't  matter  much  why  I'm  going.  Anyhow, 
it  '11  be  good  for  me.  I  Jm  gettin'  soft  and  fat.  After 
I  Ve  been  out  in  the  deep  snows  a  month  or  so,  I  '11  have 
taken  up  my  belt  a  notch  or  two.  It 's  time  I  wrestled 
with  a  blizzard  an'  tried  livin'  on  lean  rabbit." l 

Her  gaze  swept  his  lean,  hard,  compact  body.  "Yes, 
you  look  soft,"  she  mocked.  "Father  said  something  of 
that  sort  when  he  looked  at  that  door  there  you  came 
through." 

Tom  had  been  watching  her  stitching.  He  offered  a 
comment  now,  perhaps  to  change  the  subject.  It  is 
embarrassing  for  a  modest  man  to  talk  about  himself. 

"You're  workin'  that  *W  upside  down,"  he  said. 

"Am  I?  Who  said  it  was  a  ' W?" 

"I  guessed  it  might  be." 

"You're  a  bad  guesser.  It's  an  *M.'  *M'  stands  for 
McRae,  does  n't  it?" 

"Yes,  and  'W  for  Winthrop,"  he  said  with  a  little 
flare  of  boldness. 

A  touch  of  soft  color  flagged  her  cheeks.  "And  *  I '  for 
impudence,"  she  retorted  with  a  smile  that  robbed  the 
words  of  offense. 

1  Rabbit  is  about  the  poorest  meat  in  the  North.  It  is  lean  and  stringy, 
furnishes  very  little  nourishment  and  not  much  fat,  and  is  not  a  muscle- 
builder.  In  a  country  where  oil  and  grease  are  essentials,  such  food  is  not 
desirable.  The  Indians  ate  great  quantities  of  them.  (W.  M.  B.) 


"M"  FOR  MORSE  231 

He  was  careful  not  to  risk  outstaying  his  welcome. 
After  an  hour  he  rose  to  go.  His  good-bye  to  Matapi- 
Koma  and  Onistah  was  made  in  the  large  living-room. 

Jessie  followed  him  to  the  outside  door. 

He  gave  her  a  word  of  comfort  as  he  buttoned  his  coat. 
"Don't  you  worry  about  Win.  I  '11  keep  an  eye  on  him." 

"Thank  you.  And  he'll  keep  one  on  you,  I  suppose." 

He  laughed.  That  reversal  of  the  case  was  a  new  idea 
to  him.  The  prettiest  girl  in  the  North  was  not  holding 
her  breath  till  he  returned  safely.  "I  reckon,"  he  said. 
"We'll  team  together  fine." 

"Don't  be  foolhardy,  either  of  you,"  she  cautioned. 

"No,"  he  promised,  and  held  out  his  hand.  "Good 
bye,  if  I  don't  see  you  in  the  mornin'." 

He  did  not  know  she  was  screwing  up  her  courage 
and  had  been  for  half  an  hour  to  do  something  she  had 
never  done  before.  She  plunged  at  it,  a  tide  of  warm 
blood  beating  into  her  face  beneath  the  tan. 

"'M'  is  for  Morse  too,  and  'T'  for  Tom,"  she  said. 

With  the  same  motion  she  thrust  the  gun-case  into 
his  hand  and  him  out  of  the  door. 

He  stood  outside,  facing  a  closed  door,  the  bit  of 
fancy-work  in  his  mittens.  An  exultant  electric  tingle 
raced  through  his  veins.  She  had  given  him  a  token  of 
friendship  he  would  cherish  all  his  life. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

. 
THE  LONG  TRAIL 

FOR  four  days  Whaley  lay  between  life  and  death. 
There  were  hours  when  the  vital  current  in  him  ebbed 
so  low  that  McRae  thought  it  was  the  beginning  of  the 
end.  But  after  the  fifth  day  he  began  definitely  to 
mend.  His  appetite  increased.  The  fever  in  him  abated. 
The  delirium  passed  away.  Just  a  week  from  the  time 
he  had  been  wounded,  McRae  put  him  on  the  cariole 
and  took  him  to  town  over  the  hard  crust  of  the  snow. 

Beresford  returned  from  Fort  Edmonton  a  few  hours 
later,  carrying  with  him  an  appointment  for  Morse  as 
guide  and  deputy  constable. 

"Maintiens  le  droit,"  said  the  officer,  clapping  his 
friend  on  the  shoulder.  "  You  're  one  of  us  now.  A  great 
chance  for  a  short  life  you  've  got.  Time  for  the  insur 
ance  companies  to  cancel  any  policies  they  may  have 
on  you." 

Morse  smiled.  He  was  only  a  deputy,  appointed  tem 
porarily,  but  it  pleased  him  to  be  chosen  even  in  this 
capacity  as  a  member  of  the  most  efficient  police  force 
in  the  world.  "Maintiens  le  droit"  was  the  motto  of  the 
Mounted.  Tom  did  not  intend  that  the  morale  of  that 
body  should  suffer  through  him  if  he  could  help  it. 

Angus  McRae  had  offered  his  dog-train  for  the  pur 
suit  and  Beresford  had  promptly  accepted.  The  four 
dogs  of  the  Scotch  trapper  were  far  and  away  better 
than  any  others  that  could  be  picked  up  in  a  hurry. 


THE  LONG  TRAIL  233 

They  had  stamina,  and  they  were  not  savage  and  wolfish 
like  most  of  those  belonging  to  the  Indians  and  even  to 
the  Hudson's  Bay  Company. 

Supplies  for  the  trip  had  been  gathered  by  Morse. 
From  the  Crees  he  had  bought  two  hundred  pounds  of 
dried  fish  for  the  dogs.  Their  own  provisions  consisted 
of  pemmican,  dried  caribou  meat,  flour,  salt,  tea,  and 
tobacco. 

All  Faraway  was  out  to  see  the  start.  The  travelers 
would  certainly  cover  hundreds  and  perhaps  thousands 
of  miles  before  their  return.  Even  in  that  country  of 
wide  spaces,  where  men  mushed  far  when  the  rivers  and 
lakes  were  closed,  this  was  likely  to  prove  an  epic  trip. 

•Beresford  cracked  the  long  lash  and  Cuffy  leaned 
forward  in  the  traces.  The  tangle  of  dogs  straightened 
out  and  began  to  move.  A  French  voyageur  lifted  his 
throat  in  a  peculiar  shout  that  was  half  a  bark.  Indians 
and  half-breeds  snowshoed  down  the  street  beside  the 
sled.  At  the  door  of  the  McRae  house  stood  Angus,  his 
wife,  and  daughter. 

"God  wi'  you  baith,"  the  trapper  called. 

Jessie  waved  a  scarf,  and  Beresford,  who  had  spent 
the  previous  evening  with  her,  threw  up  a  hand  in  gay 
greeting. 

The  calvacade  drew  to  the  edge  of  the  woods.  Morse 
looked  back.  A  slim  figure,  hardly  distinguishable  in 
the  distance,  still  stood  in  front  of  the  McRae  house 
fluttering  the  scarf. 

A  turn  in  the  trail  hid  her.  Faraway  was  shut  out  of 
view. 

For  four  or  five  miles  the  trappers  stayed  with  them. 


234  MAN-SIZE 

It  was  rather  a  custom  of  the  North  to  speed  travelers 
on  their  way  in  this  fashion.  At  the  edge  of  the  first 
lake  the  Indians  and  half-breeds  said  good-bye  and 
turned  back. 

Morse  moved  onto  the  ice  and  broke  trail.  The  dogs 
followed  in  tandem  —  Cuffy,  Koona,  Bull,  and  Csesar, 
They  traveled  fast  over  the  ice  and  reached  the  woods 
beyond.  The  timber  was  not  thick.  Beyond  this  was  a 
second  lake,  a  larger  one.  By  the  time  they  had  crossed 
this,  the  sun  was  going  down. 

The  men  watched  for  a  sheltered  place  to  camp  and 
as  soon  as  they  found  one,  they  threw  off  the  trail  to  the 
edge  of  the  woods,  drawing  up  the  sledge  back  of  them 
as  a  wind-break.  They  gathered  pine  for  fuel  and  cut 
balsam  boughs  for  beds.  It  had  come  on  to  snow,  and 
they  ate  supper  with  their  backs  to  the  drive  of  the 
flakes,  the  hoods  of  their  furs  drawn  over  their  heads. 

The  dogs  sat  round  in  a  half -circle  watching  them  and 
the  frozen  fish  thawing  before  the  fire.  Their  faces,  tilted 
a  little  sideways,  ears  cocked  and  eyes  bright,  looked 
anxiously  expectant.  When  the  fish  were  half-thawed, 
Morse  tossed  them  by  turn  to  the  waiting  animals, 
who  managed  to  get  rid  of  their  supper  with  a  snap  and 
a  gulp.  Afterward  they  burrowed  down  in  the  snow  and 
fell  asleep. 

On  the  blazing  logs  Beresford  had  put  two  kettles 
filled  with  snow.  These  he  refilled  after  the  snow  melted, 
until  enough  water  was  in  them.  Into  one  kettle  he  put 
a  piece  of  fat  caribou  meat.  The  other  was  to  make  tea. 

Using  their  snowshoes  as  shovels,  they  scraped  a  place 
clear  and  scattered  balsam  boughs  on  it.  On  this  they 


THE  LONG  TRAIL  235 

spread  an  empty  flour  sack,  cut  open  at  the  side.  Tin 
plates  and  cups  served  as  dish 

Their  supper  consisted  of  soggy  bannocks,  fat  meat, 
and  tea.  While  they  ate,  the  snow  continued  to  fall. 
It  was  not  unwelcome,  for  so  long  as  this  lasted  the  cold 
could  not  be  intolerable.  Moreover,  snow  makes  a 
good  white  blanket  and  protects  against  sudden  drops 
in  temperature. 

They  changed  their  moccasins  and  duffles  and  pulled 
on  as  night-wear  long  buffalo-skin  boots,  hood,  mufflers, 
and  fur  mits.  A  heavy  fur  robe  and  a  blanket  were 
added.  Into  these  last  they  snuggled  down,  wrapping 
themselves  up  so  completely  that  a  tenderfoot  would 
have  smothered  for  lack  of  air. 

Before  they  retired,  they  could  hear  the  ice  on  the 
lake  cracking  like  distant  thunder.  The  trees  back  of 
them  occasionally  snapped  from  the  cold  with  reports 
that  sounded  like  pistol  shots. 

In  five  minutes  both  men  were  asleep.  They  lay  with 
their  heads  entirely  covered,  as  the  Indians  did.  Not 
once  during  the  night  did  they  stir.  To  disarrange 
their  bedding  and  expose  the  nose  or  the  hands  to  the 
air  would  be  to  risk  being  frozen. 

Morse  woke  first.  He  soon  had  a  roaring  fire.  Again 
there  were  two  kettles  on  it,  one  for  fat  meat  and  the 
other  for  strong  tea.  No  fish  were  thawing  before 
the  heat,  for  dogs  are  fed  only  once  a  day.  Otherwise 
they  get  sleepy  and  sluggish,  losing  the  edge  of  their 
keenness. 

They  were  off  to  an  early  start.  There  was  a  cold 
head  wind  that  was  uncomfortable.  For  hours  they  held 


236  MAN-SIZE 

to  the  slow,  swinging  stride  of  the  webs.  Sometimes 
the  trail  was  through  the  forest,  sometimes  in  and  out  of 
brush  and  small  timber.  Twice  during  the  day  they 
crossed  lakes  and  hit  up  a  lively  pace.  Once  they  came 
to  a  muskeg,  four  miles  across,  and  had  to  plough  over 
the  moss  hags  while  brush  tangled  their  feet  and  slapped 
their  faces. 

Cuffy  was  a  prince  of  leaders.  He  seemed  to  know  by 
some  sixth  sense  the  best  way  to  wind  through  under 
brush  and  over  swamps.  He  was  master  of  the  train 
and  ruled  by  strength  and  courage  as  well  as  intelli 
gence.  Bull  had  ideas  of  his  own,  but  after  one  sharp 
brush  with  Cuffy,  from  which  he  had  emerged  ruffled 
and  bleeding,  the  native  dog  relinquished  claim  to 
dominance. 

The  travelers  made  about  fifteen  miles  before  noon. 
They  came  to  a  solitary  tepee,  built  on  the  edge  of  a 
lake  with  a  background  of  snow-burdened  spruce.  This 
lodge  was  constructed  of  poles  arranged  cone-shaped 
side  by  side,  the  chinks  between  plastered  with  moss 
wedged  in  to  fill  every  crevice.  A  thin  wisp  of  smoke  rose 
from  an  open  space  in  the  top. 

At  the  sound  of  the  yelping  dogs  a  man  lifted  the 
moose-skin  curtain  that  served  as  a  door.  He  was  an 
old  and  wrinkled  Cree.  His  face  was  so  brown  and 
tough  and  netted  with  seams  that  it  resembled  a  piece 
of  alligator  leather.  From  out  of  it  peered  two  very 
small  bright  eyes. 

"Ugh!  Ugh!  "he  grunted. 

This  appeared  to  be  all  the  English  that  he  knew. 
Beresford  tried  him  in  French  and  discovered  he  had  a 


THE  LONG  TRAIL  237 

smattering  of  it.  After  a  good  many  attempts,  the 
soldier  found  that  he  had  seen  no  white  man  with  a  dog- 
train  in  many  moons.  The  Cree  lived  there  alone,  it 
appeared,  and  trapped  for  a  living.  Why  he  was  sep 
arated  from  all  his  kin  and  tribal  relations  the  young 
Canadian  could  not  find  out  at  the  time.  Later  he 
learned  that  the  old  fellow  was  an  outcast  because  he 
had  once  shown  the  white  feather  in  a  battle  with  Black- 
feet  fifty  years  earlier. 

Before  they  left,  the  travelers  discovered  that  he 
knew  two  more  words  of  English.  One  was  rum,  the 
other  tobacco.  He  begged  for  both.  They  left  him  a 
half -foot  of  tobacco.  The  scant  supply  of  whiskey  they 
had  brought  was  for  an  emergency. 

Just  before  night  fell,  Morse  shot  two  ptarmigan  in 
the  woods.  These  made  a  welcome  addition  to  their 
usual  fare. 

Though  both  the  men  were  experienced  in  the  use  of 
snowshoes,  their  feet  were  raw  from  the  chafing  of  the 
thongs.  Before  the  camp-fire  they  greased  the  sore 
places  with  tallow.  In  a  few  days  the  irritation  due  to 
the  webs  would  disappear  and  the  leg  muscles  brought 
into  service  by  this  new  and  steady  shuffle  would  harden 
and  grow  fit. 

They  had  built  a  wind-break  of  brush  beside  the  sled 
and  covered  the  ground  with  spruce  boughs  after  clear 
ing  away  the  snow.  Here  they  rested  after  supper,  dry 
ing  socks,  duffles,  and  moccasins,  which  were  wet  with 
perspiration,  before  the  popping  fire. 

Beresford  pulled  out  his  English  briar  pipe  and  Tom 
one  picked  from  the  Company  stock.  Smoke  wreathed 


238  MAN-SIZE 

their  heads  while  they  lounged  indolently  on  the  spruce 
bed  and  occasionally  exchanged  a  remark.  They  knew 
each  other  well  enough  for  long  silences.  When  they 
talked,  it  was  because  they  had  something  to  say. 

The  Canadian  looked  at  his  friend's  new  gun-case  and 
remarked  with  a  gleam  in  his  eye: 

"I  spoke  for  that  first,  Tom.  Had  miners  on  it,  I 
thought." 

The  American  laughed  sardonically.  "It  was  a  present 
for  a  good  boy,"  he  explained.  "I've  a  notion  some 
body  was  glad  I  was  mushin'  with  you  on  this  trip. 
Maybe  you  can  guess  why.  Anyhow,  I  drew  a  present 
out  of  it." 

"I  see  you  did,"  Beresford  answered,  grinning. 

"I'm  to  look  after  you  proper  an'  see  you're  tucked 
up." 

"Oh,  that 'sit?" 

"That's  just  it." 

The  constable  looked  at  him  queerly,  started  to  say 
something,  then  changed  his  mind. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 
A  PICTURE  IN  A  LOCKET 

IT  was  characteristic  of  McRae  that  he  had  insisted  on 
bringing  Whaley  to  his  own  home  to  recuperate.  "It's 
nursin'  you  need,  man,  an'  guid  food.  Ye  '11  get  baith 
at  the  hoose." 

The  trader  protested,  and  was  overruled.  His  Cree 
wife  was  not  just  now  able  to  look  after  him.  McRae's 
wife  and  daughter  made  good  his  promise,  and  the 
wounded  man  thrived  under  their  care. 

On  an  afternoon  Whaley  lay  on  the  bed  in  his  room 
smoking.  Beside  him  sat  Lemoine,  also  puffing  at  a  pipe. 
The  trapper  had  brought  to  the  ex-gambler  a  strange 
tale  of  a  locket  and  a  ring  he  had  seen  bought  by  a  half- 
breed  from  a  Blackfoot  squaw  who  claimed  to  have  had 
it  eighteen  years.  He  had  just  finished  telling  of  it  when 
Jessie  knocked  at  the  door  and  came  into  the  room  with 
a  bowl  of  caribou  broth. 

Whaley  pretended  to  resent  this  solicitude,  but  his 
objection  was  a  fraud.  He  liked  this  girl  fussing  over 
him.  His  attitude  toward  her  was  wholly  changed. 
Thinking  of  her  as  a  white  girl,  he  looked  at  her  with 
respect. 

"No  more  slops,"  he  said.  "Bring  me  a  good  caribou 
steak  and  I'll  say  thank  you." 

"You're  to  eat  what  Mother  sends,"  she  told  him. 

Lemoine  had  risen  from  the  chair  on  which  he  had 
been  sitting.  He  stared  at  her,  a  queer  look  of  puzzled 


240  MAN-SIZE 

astonishment  in  his  eyes.  Jessie  became  aware  of  his 
gaze  and  flashed  on  him  a  look  of  annoyance. 

"Have  you  seen  a  ghost,  Mr.  Lemoine?"  she  asked. 

"By  gar,  maybeso,  Miss  Jessie.  The  picture  in  the 
locket,  it  jus'  lak  you  —  same  hair,  same  eyes,  same 
smile." 

"What  picture  in  what  locket?" 

"The  locket  I  see  at  Whoop-Up,  the  one  Pierre  Roubi- 
deaux  buy  from  old  Makoye-kin's  squaw." 

"A  picture  of  a  Blackfoot?" 

"No-o.  Maybe  French  —  maybe  from  the  'Merican 
country.  I  do  not  know." 

Whaley  took  the  pipe  from  his  mouth  and  sat  up,  the 
chill  eyes  in  his  white  face  fixed  and  intent.  "Go  back 
to  Whoop-Up,  Lemoine.  Buy  that  locket  and  that  ring 
for  me  from  Pierre  Roubideaux.  See  Makoye-kin  — 
and  his  squaw.  Find  out  where  she  got  it  —  and  when. 
Run  down  the  whole  story." 

The  trapper  took  off  a  fur  cap  and  scratched  his  curly 
poll.  "Mais  —  pourquois?  All  that  will  take  money, 
is  it  not  so?" 

"I'll  let  you  have  the  money.  Spend  what  you  need, 
but  account  for  it  to  me  afterward." 

Jessie  felt  the  irregular  beat  of  a  hammer  inside  her 
bosom.  "What  is  it  you  think,  Mr.  Whaley?"  she  cried 
softly. 

"I  don't  know  what  I  think.  Probably  nothing  to  it. 
But  there's  a  locket.  We  know  that.  WTith  a  picture 
that  looks  like  you,  Lemoine  here  thinks.  We'd  better 
find  out  whose  picture  it  is,  had  n't  we?" 

"Yes,  but  —  Do  you  mean  that  maybe  it  has  some- 


A  PICTURE  IN  A  LOCKET          241 

thing  to  do  with  me?  How  can  it?  The  sister  of  Stoki- 
matis  was  my  mother.  Onistah  is  my  cousin.  Ask 
Stokimatis.  She  knows.  What  could  this  woman  of 
the  picture  be  to  me?" 

Jessie  could  not  understand  the  fluttering  pulse  in 
her  throat.  She  had  not  doubted  that  her  mother  was 
a  Blackfoot.  All  the  romance  of  her  clouded  birth  cen 
tered  around  the  unknown  father  who  had  died  when 
she  was  a  baby.  Stokimatis  had  not  been  very  clear 
about  that.  She  had  never  met  the  man,  according  to 
the  story  she  had  told  Sleeping  Dawn.  Neither  she  nor 
those  of  her  tribal  group  knew  anything  of  him.  Was 
there  a  mystery  about  his  life?  In  her  childish  dreams 
Jessie  had  woven  one.  He  was  to  her  everything  desir 
able,  for  he  was  the  tie  that  bound  her  to  all  the  higher 
standards  of  life  she  craved. 

"I  don't  know.  Likely  it's  all  a  mare's  nest.  Find 
Stokimatis,  Lemoine,  and  bring  her  back  with  you. 
We'll  see  what  she  can  tell  us.  And  get  the  locket  and 
the  ring,  with  the  story  back  of  them." 

Again  Lemoine  referred  to  the  cost.  He  would  have 
to  take  his  dog-train  to  Whoop-Up,  and  from  there  out 
to  the  creek  where  Pierre  Roubideaux  was  living. 
Makoye-kin  and  his  family  might  be  wintering  any 
where  within  a  radius  of  a  hundred  miles.  Was  there 
any  use  in  going  out  on  such  a  wild-hare  chase? 

Whaley  thought  there  was  and  said  so  with  finality. 
He  did  not  give  his  real  reason,  which  was  that  he 
wanted  to  pay  back  to  McRae  and  his  daughter  the 
debt  he  owed.  They  had  undoubtedly  saved  his  life 
after  he  had  treated  her  outrageously.  There  was  al- 


242  MAN-SIZE 

ready  one  score  to  his  credit,  of  course.  He  had  saved 
her  from  West.  But  he  felt  the  balance  still  tipped 
heavily  against  him.  And  he  was  a  man  who  paid  his 
debts. 

It  was  this  factor  of  his  make-up  —  the  obligation 
of  old  associations  laid  upon  him  —  that  had  taken  him 
out  to  West  with  money,  supplies,  and  a  dog-train  to 
help  his  escape. 

Jessie  went  out  to  find  her  father.  Her  eagerness  to 
see  him  outflew  her  steps.  This  was  not  a  subject  she 
could  discuss  with  Matapi-Koma.  The  Cree  woman 
would  not  understand  what  a  tremendous  difference  it 
made  if  she  could  prove  her  blood  was  wholly  of  the 
superior  race.  Nor  could  Jessie  with  tact  raise  such  a 
point.  It  involved  not  only  the  standing  of  Matapi- 
Koma  herself,  but  also  of  her  sons. 

The  girl  found  McRae  in  the  storeroom  looking  over 
a  bundle  of  assorted  pelts  —  marten,  fox,  mink,  and 
beaver.  The  news  tumbled  from  her  lips  in  excited 
exclamations. 

"Oh,  Father,  guess!  Mr.  Lemoine  saw  a  picture  —  a 
Blackf oot  woman  had  it  —  old  Makoye-kin's  wife  — 
and  she  sold  it.  And  he  says  it  was  like  me  —  exactly. 
Maybe  it  was  my  aunt  —  or  some  one.  My  father's 
sister!  Don't  you  think?" 

"I'll  ken  what  I  think  better  gin  ye '11  just  quiet  doon 
an'  tell  me  a'  aboot  it,  lass." 

She  told  him.  The  Scotchman  took  what  she  had  to 
say  with  no  outward  sign  of  excitement.  None  the  less 
his  blood  moved  faster.  He  wanted  no  change  in  the 
relations  between  them  that  would  interfere  with  the 


A  PICTURE  IN  A  LOCKET          243 

love  she  felt  for  him.  To  him  it  did  not  matter  whether 
she  was  of  the  pure  blood  or  of  the  metis.  He  had  al 
ways  ignored  the  Indian  hi  her.  She  was  a  precious 
wildling  of  beauty  and  delight.  By  nature  she  was  of  the 
ruling  race.  There  was  in  her  nothing  servile  or  de 
pendent,  none  of  the  inertia  that  was  so  marked  a  men 
tal  characteristic  of  the  Blackfoot  and  the  Cree.  Her 
slender  body  was  compact  of  fire  and  spirit.  She  was 
alive  to  her  finger-tips. 

None  the  less  he  was  glad  on  her  account.  Since  it 
mattered  to  her  that  she  was  a  half-blood,  he  would  re 
joice,  too,  if  she  could  prove  the  contrary.  Or,  if  she 
could  trace  her  own  father's  family,  he  would  try  to 
be  glad  for  her. 

With  his  rough  forefinger  he  touched  gently  the  ten 
der  curve  of  the  girl's  cheek.  "I'm  thinkin'  that  gin  ye 
find  relatives  across  the  line,  auld  Angus  McRae  will 
be  losin'  his  dawtie." 

She  flew  into  his  arms,  her  warm,  young  face  pressed 
against  his  seamed  cheek. 

"Never  —  never!  You're  my  father — always  that 
no  matter  what  I  find.  You  taught  me  to  read  and 
nursed  me  when  I  was  sick.  Always  you  've  cared  for  me 
and  been  good  to  me.  I'll  never  have  any  real  father 
but  you,"  she  cried  passionately. 

He  stroked  her  dark,  abundant  hair  fondly.  "My  lass, 
I  Ve  gi'en  ye  all  the  love  any  yin  could  gi'e  his  ain  bairn. 
I  doot  I've  been  hard  on  ye  at  times,  but  I'm  a  dour 
auld  man  an'  fine  ye  ken  my  heart  was  woe  for  ye  when 
I  was  the  strictest." 

She  could  count  on  the  fingers  of  one  hand  the  time& 


244  MAN-SIZE 

when  he  had  said  as  much.  Of  nature  he  was  a  bit  of 
Scotch  granite  externally.  He  was  sentimental.  Most 
of  his  race  are.  But  he  guarded  the  expression  of  it  as 
though  it  were  a  vice. 

"Maybe  Onistah  has  heard  his  mother  say  something 
about  it,"  Jessie  suggested. 

"Like  enough.  There'll  be  nae  harm  in  askin'  the 
lad." 

But  the  Blackfoot  had  little  to  tell.  He  had  been  told 
by  Stokimatis  that  Sleeping  Dawn  was  his  cousin,  but 
he  had  never  quite  believed  it.  Once,  when  he  had 
pressed  his  mother  with  questions,  she  had  smiled 
deeply  and  changed  the  subject.  His  feeling  was,  and 
had  always  been,  that  there  was  some  mystery  about 
the  girl's  birth.  Stokimatis  either  knew  what  it  was  or 
had  some  hint  of  it. 

His  testimony  at  least  tended  to  support  the  wild 
hopes  flaming  in  the  girl's  heart. 

Lemoine  started  south  for  Whoop-Up  at  break  of  day. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

INTO  THE  LONE  LAND 

INTO  Northern  Lights  the  pursuers  drove  after  a  four- 
day  traverse.  Manders,  of  the  Mounted,  welcomed 
them  with  the  best  he  had.  No  news  had  come  to  him 
from  the  outside  for  more  than  two  months,  and  after 
his  visitors  were  fed  and  warmed,  they  lounged  in  front 
of  a  roaring  log  fire  while  he  flung  questions  at  them  of 
what  the  world  and  its  neighbor  were  doing. 

Manders  was  a  dark-bearded  man,  big  for  the  North- 
West  Police.  He  had  two  hobbies.  One  was  trouble  in 
the  Balkans,  which  he  was  always  prophesying.  The 
other  was  a  passion  for  Sophocles,  which  he  read  in  the 
original  from  a  pocket  edition.  Start  him  on  the  chariot 
race  in  "Elektra"  and  he  would  spout  it  while  he  paced 
the  cabin  and  gestured  with  flashing  eyes.  For  he  was  a 
Rugby  and  an  Oxford  man,  though  born  with  the  wan 
derlust  in  his  heart.  Some  day  he  would  fall  heir  to  a 
great  estate  in  England,  an  old  baronetcy  which  carried 
with  it  manors  and  deer  parks  and  shaven  lawns  that 
had  taken  a  hundred  years  to  grow.  Meanwhile  he 
lived  on  pemmican  and  sour  bannocks.  Sometimes  he 
grumbled,  but  his  grumbling  was  a  fraud.  He  was  here 
of  choice,  because  he  was  a  wild  ass  of  the  desert  and  his 
ears  heard  only  the  call  of  adventure.  Of  such  was  the 
North-West  Mounted. 

Presently,  when  the  stream  of  his  curiosity  as  to  the 
outside  began  to  dry,  Beresford  put  a  few  questions  of 


246  MAN-SIZE 

his  own.  Manders  could  give  him  no  information.  He 
was  in  touch  with  the  trappers  for  a  radius  of  a  hundred 
miles  of  which  Northern  Lights  was  the  center,  but  no 
word  had  come  to  him  of  a  lone  traveler  with  a  dog-train 
passing  north. 

"Probably  striking  west  of  here,"  the  big  black  Eng 
lishman  suggested. 

Beresf ord's  face  twisted  to  a  wry,  humorous  grimace. 
East,  west,  or  north,  they  would  have  to  find  the  fellow 
and  bring  him  back. 

The  man-hunters  spent  a  day  at  Northern  Lights  to 
rest  the  dogs  and  restock  their  supplies.  They  over 
hauled  their  dunnage  carefully,  mended  the  broken 
moose-skin  harness,  and  looked  after  one  of  the  animals 
that  had  gone  a  little  lame  from  a  sore  pad.  From  a 
French  half-breed  they  bought  additional  equipment 
much  needed  for  the  trail.  He  was  a  gay,  good-looking 
youth  in  new  fringed  leather  hunting-shirt,  blue  Sas 
katchewan  cap  trimmed  with  ribbons,  and  cross  belt  of 
scarlet  cloth.  His  stock  in  trade  was  dog-shoes,  made 
of  caribou-skin  by  his  wife,  and  while  in  process  of 
tanning  soaked  in  some  kind  of  liquid  that  would  pre 
vent  the  canines  from  eating  them  off  their  feet. 

The  temperature  was  thirty -five  below  zero  when  they 
left  the  post  and  there  were  sun  dogs  in  the  sky.  Man 
ders  had  suggested  that  they  had  better  wait  a  day  or 
two,  but  the  man-hunters  were  anxious  to  be  on  the  trail. 
They  had  a  dangerous,  unpleasant  job  on  hand.  Both  of 
them  wanted  it  over  with  as  soon  as  possible. 

They  headed  into  the  wilds.  The  road  they  made  was 
a  crooked  path  through  the  white,  unbroken  forest. 


INTO  THE  LONE  LAND  247 

They  saw  many  traces  of  fur-bearing  animals,  but  did 
not  stop  to  do  any  hunting.  The  intense  cold  and  the 
appearance  of  the  sky  were  whips  to  drive  them  fast. 
In  the  next  two  or  three  days  they  passed  fifteen  or 
twenty  lakes.  Over  these  they  traveled  rapidly,  but 
in  the  portages  and  the  woods  they  had  to  pack  the 
snow,  sometimes  cut  out  obstructing  brush,  and  again 
help  the  dogs  over  rough  or  heavy  places. 

The  blizzard  caught  them  the  third  day.  They 
fought  their  way  through  the  gathering  storm  across  a 
rather  large  lake  to  the  timber's  edge.  Here  they  cleared 
away  a  space  about  nine  feet  square  and  cut  evergreen 
boughs  from  the  trees  to  cover  it.  At  one  side  of  this, 
Morse  built  the  fire  while  Beresford  unharnessed  the 
dogs  and  thawed  out  a  mess  of  frozen  fish  for  them. 
Presently  the  kettles  were  bubbling  on  the  fire.  The 
men  ate  supper  and  drew  the  sled  up  as  a  barricade 
against  the  wind. 

The  cold  had  moderated  somewhat  and  it  had  come 
on  to  snow.  All  night  a  sleety,  wind-driven  drizzle 
beat  upon  them.  They  rose  from  an  uncomfortable 
night  to  a  gloomy  day. 

They  consulted  about  what  was  best  to  do.  Their 
camp  was  in  a  poor  place,  among  a  few  water-logged 
trees  that  made  a  poor,  smoky  fire.  It  had  little  shelter 
from  the  storm,  and  there  was  no  evidence  of  fair 
weather  at  hand. 

"Better  tackle  the  next  traverse,"  Morse  advised. 
"Once  we  get  across  the  lake  we  can't  be  worse  off  than 
we  are  here." 

"Righto!"  assented  Beresford. 


248  MAN-SIZE 

They  packed  their  supplies,  harnessed  the  dogs,  and 
were  off.  Into  the  storm  they  drove,  head  down,  buf 
feted  by  a  screaming  wind  laden  with  stinging  sleet 
that  swept  howling  across  the  lake.  All  about  them  they 
heard  the  sharp  reports  of  cracking  ice.  At  any  moment 
a  fissure  might  open,  and  its  width  might  be  an  inch  or 
several  yards.  In  the  blinding  gale  they  could  see 
nothing.  Literally,  they  had  to  feel  their  way. 

Morse  went  ahead  to  test  the  ice,  Cuffy  following  close 
at  his  heels.  The  water  rushes  up  after  a  fissure  and 
soon  freezes  over.  The  danger  is  that  one  may  come  to 
it  too  soon. 

This  was  what  happened.  Morse,  on  his  snowshoes, 
crossed  the  thinly  frozen  ice  safely.  Cuffy,  a  step  or  two 
behind  the  trail-breaker,  plunged  through  into  the 
water.  The  prompt  energy  of  Beresford  saved  the  other 
dogs.  He  stopped  them  instantly  and  threw  his  whole 
weight  back  to  hold  the  sled.  The  St.  Bernard  floun 
dered  in  the  water  for  a  few  moments  and  tried  to  reach 
Morse.  The  harness  held  Cuffy  back.  Beresford  ran 
to  the  edge  of  the  break  and  called  him.  A  second  or  two 
later  he  was  helping  to  drag  the  dog  back  upon  the  firm 
ice. 

In  the  bitter  cold  the  matted  coat  of  the  St.  Bernard 
froze  stiff.  Cuffy  knew  his  danger.  The  instant  the  sled 
was  across  the  crack,  he  plunged  at  the  load  and  went 
forward  with  such  speed  that  he  seemed  almost  to  drag 
the  other  dogs  with  him. 

Fortunately  the  shore  was  near,  not  more  than  three 
or  four  miles  away.  Within  half  an  hour  land  was 
reached.  A  forest  came  down  to  the  edge  of  the  lake. 


INTO  THE  LONE  LAND  249 

From  the  nearer  trees  Morse  sliced  birch  bark.  An 
abundance  of  fairly  dry  wood  was  at  hand.  Before  a 
roaring  fire  Cuffy  lay  on  a  buffalo  robe  and  steamed. 
Within  an  hour  he  was  snuggling  a  contented  nose  up 
to  Beresford's  caressing  hand. 

Fagged  out,  the  travelers  went  to  bed  early.  Long 
before  daybreak  they  were  up.  The  blizzard  had  died 
down  during  the  night.  It  left  behind  a  crusted  trail 
over  which  the  dogs  moved  fast.  The  thermometer 
had  again  dropped  sharply  and  the  weather  was  bitter 
cold.  Before  the  lights  of  an  Indian  village  winked  at 
them  through  the  trees,  they  had  covered  nearly  forty 
miles.  In  the  wintry  afternoon  darkness  they  drove 
up. 

The  native  dogs  were  barking  a  welcome  long  before 
they  came  jingling  into  the  midst  of  the  tepees.  Bucks, 
squaws,  and  papooses  tumbled  out  to  see  them  with 
guttural  exclamations  of  greeting.  Some  of  the  young 
sters  and  one  or  two  of  the  maidens  had  never  before 
seen  a  white  man. 

A  fast  and  furious  melee  interrupted  conversation. 
The  wolfish  dogs  of  the  village  were  trying  out  the  met 
tle  of  the  four  strangers.  The  snarling  and  yelping 
drowned  all  other  sounds  until  the  gaunt  horde  of  sharp- 
muzzled,  stiff-haired  brutes  had  been  beaten  back  by 
savage  blows  from  the  whip  and  by  quick  thrusts  of  a 
rifle  butt. 

The  head  man  of  the  group  invited  the  two  whites 
into  the  largest  hut.  Morse  and  Beresford  sat  down 
before  a  smoky  fire  and  carried  on  a  difficult  dialogue. 
They  divided  half  a  yard  of  tobacco  among  the  men 


£50  MAN-SIZE 

present  and  gave  each  of  the  women  a  small  handful 
of  various-colored  beads. 

They  ate  sparingly  of  a  stew  made  of  fish,  the  gift 
of  their  hosts.  In  turn  the  officers  had  added  to  the 
menu  a  large  piece  of  fat  moose  which  was  devoured 
with  voracity. 

The  Indians,  questioned,  had  heard  a  story  of  a  white 
man  traveling  alone  through  the  Lone  Lands  with  a 
dog-train.  He  was  a  giant  of  a  fellow  and  surly,  the 
word  had  gone  out.  Who  he  was  or  where  he  was  going 
they  did  not  know,  but  he  seemed  to  be  making  for  the 
great  river  in  the  north.  That  was  the  sum  and  sub 
stance  of  what  Beresford  learned  from  them  about 
West  by  persistent  inquiry. 

After  supper,  since  it  was  so  bitterly  cold  outside,  the 
man-hunters  slept  in  the  tepee  of  the  chief.  Thirteen 
Indians  too  slept  there.  Two  of  them  were  the  head 
man's  wives,  six  were  his  children,  one  was  a  grandchild. 
W7ho  the  rest  of  the  party  were  or  what  relation  they 
bore  to  him,  the  guests  did  not  learn. 

The  place  was  filthy  and  the  air  was  vile.  Before 
morning  both  the  young  whites  regretted  they  had  not 
taken  chances  outside. 

"Not  ever  again,"  Beresford  said  with  frank  disgust 
after  they  had  set  out  next  day.  "  I  '11  starve  if  I  have  to. 
I'll  freeze  if  I  must.  But,  by  Jove!  I'll  not  eat  Injun 
stew  or  sleep  in  a  pot-pourri  of  nitchies.  Not  good 
enough." 

Tom  grinned.  "While  I  was  eatin'  the  stew,  I  thought 
I  could  stand  sleepin'  there  even  if  I  gagged  at  the  eats, 
and  while  I  was  tryin'  to  sleep,  I  made  up  my  mind 


INTO  THE  LONE  LAND  251 

if  I  had  to  choose  one  it  would  be  the  stew.  Next  time 
we're  wrastlin'  with  a  blizzard,  we'll  know  enough 
to  be  thankful  for  our  mercies.  We  '11  be  able  to  figure 
it  might  be  a  lot  worse." 

That  afternoon  they  killed  a  caribou  and  got  much- 
needed  fresh  meat  for  themselves  and  the  dogs.  Unfor 
tunately,  while  carrying  the  hind-quarters  to  the  sled, 
Beresford  slipped  and  strained  a  tendon  in  the  left  leg. 
He  did  not  notice  it  much  at  the  time,  but  after  an 
hour's  travel  the  pain  increased.  He  found  it  difficult 
to  keep  pace  with  the  dogs. 

They  were  traversing  a  ten-mile  lake.  Morse  pro 
posed  that  they  camp  as  soon  as  they  reached  the  edge 
of  it. 

"Better  get  on  the  sled  and  ride  till  then,"  he  added. 

Beresford  shook  his  head.  "No,  I '11  carry  on  all  right. 
Got  to  grin  and  bear  it.  The  sled 's  overloaded  anyhow. 
You  trot  along  and  I'll  tag.  Time  you  've  got  the  fires 
built  and  all  the  work  done,  I'll  loaf  into  camp." 

Tom  made  no  further  protest.  "All  right.  Take  it 
easy.  I'll  unload  and  run  back  for  you." 

The  Montanan  found  a  good  camp-site,  dumped  the 
supplies,  and  left  Cuffy  as  a  guard.  With  the  other  dogs 
he  drove  back  and  met  the  officer.  Beresford  was  still 
limping  doggedly  forward.  Every  step  sent  a  shoot  of 
pain  through  him,  but  he  set  his  teeth  and  kept  moving. 

None  the  less  he  was  glad  to  see  the  empty  sled.  He 
tumbled  on  and  let  the  others  do  the  work. 

At  camp  he  scraped  the  snow  away  with  a  shoe  while 
Morse  cut  spruce  boughs  and  chopped  wood  for  the  fire. 

Beresford  suffered  a  good  deal  from  his  knee  that 


252  MAN-SIZE 

night.  He  did  not  sleep  much,  and  when  day  came  it 
was  plain  he  could  not  travel.  The  camp-site  was  a 
good  one.  There  was  plenty  of  wood,  and  the  shape  of 
the  draw  in  which  they  were  located  was  a  protection 
from  the  cold  wind.  The  dogs  would  be  no  worse  for  a 
day  or  two  of  rest.  The  travelers  decided  to  remain 
here  as  long  as  might  be  necessary. 

Tom  went  hunting.  He  brought  back  a  bag  of  four 
ptarmigan  late  in  the  afternoon.  Fried,  they  were  deli 
cious.  The  dogs  stood  round  in  a  half -circle  and  caught 
the  bones  tossed  to  them.  Crunch  —  crunch  —  crunch. 
The  bones  no  longer  were.  The  dogs,  heads  cocked  on 
one  side,  waited  expectantly  for  more  tender  tidbits. 

"  Saw  deer  tracks.  To-morrow  I  '11  have  a  try  for  one," 
Morse  said. 

The  lame  man  hobbled  down  to  the  lake  next  day, 
broke  the  ice,  and  fished  for  jack  pike.  He  took  back 
to  camp  with  him  all  he  could  carry. 

On  the  fourth  day  his  knee  was  so  much  improved 
that  he  was  able  to  travel  slowly.  They  were  glad  to  see 
that  night  the  lights  of  Fort  Desolation,  as  one  of  the 
Mounted  had  dubbed  the  post  on  account  of  its  lone 
liness. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 
THE  MAN-HUNTERS  READ  SIGN 

IN  the  white  North  travelers  are  few  and  far.  It  is  im 
possible  for  one  to  pass  through  the  country  without 
leaving  a  record  of  his  progress  written  on  the  terrain 
and  in  the  minds  of  the  natives.  The  fugitive  did  not 
attempt  concealment.  He  had  with  him  now  an  Indian 
guide  and  was  pushing  into  the  Barren  Lands.  There 
was  no  uncertainty  about  his  movements.  From  Fort 
Chippewayan  he  had  swung  to  the  northwest  in  the  line 
of  the  great  frozen  lakes,  skirting  Athabasca  and  follow 
ing  the  Great  Slave  River  to  the  lake  of  the  same  name. 
This  he  crossed  at  the  narrowest  point,  about  where  the 
river  empties  into  it,  and  headed  for  the  eastern  extrem 
ity  of  Lake  La  Martre. 

On  his  heels,  still  far  behind,  trod  the  two  pursuers, 
patient,  dogged,  and  inexorable.  They  had  left  far  in 
the  rear  the  out-forts  of  the  Mounted  and  the  little 
settlements  of  the  free  traders.  Already  they  were  deep 
in  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company  trapping-grounds. 
Ahead  of  them  lay  the  Barrens,  stretching  to  the  inlets 
of  the  Arctic  Ocean. 

The  days  were  drawing  out  and  the  nights  getting 
shorter.  The  untempered  sun  of  the  Northland  beat 
down  on  the  cold  snow  crystals  and  reflected  a  million 
sparks  of  light.  In  that  white  field  the  glare  was  almost 
unbearable.  Both  of  them  wore  smoked  glasses,  but 
even  with  these  their  eyes  continually  smarted.  They 


254  MAN-SIZE 

grew  red  and  swollen.  If  time  had  not  been  so  great  an 
element  in  their  journey,  they  would  have  tried  to 
travel  only  after  sunset.  But  they  could  not  afford  this. 
West  would  keep  going  as  long  and  as  fast  as  he 
could. 

Each  of  them  dreaded  snow-blindness.  They  knew 
the  sign  of  it  —  a  dreadful  pain,  a  smarting  of  the  eye 
balls  as  though  hot  burning  sand  were  being  flung 
against  them.  In  camp  at  night  they  bathed  their 
swollen  lids  and  applied  a  cool  and  healing  salve. 

Meanwhile  the  weeks  slipped  into  months  and  still 
they  held  like  bulldogs  to  the  trail  of  the  man  they  were 
after. 

The  silence  of  the  wide,  empty  white  wastes  sur 
rounded  them,  except  for  an  occasional  word,  the  whine 
of  a  dog,  and  the  slithering  crunch  of  the  sled-runners. 
Erom  unfriendly  frozen  deserts  they  passed,  through 
eternal  stillness,  into  the  snow  wilderness  that  seemed 
to  stretch  forever.  When  they  came  to  forests,  now 
thinner,  smaller,  and  less  frequent,  they  welcomed  them 
as  they  would  an  old  friend. 

"He's  headin'  for  Great  Bear,  looks  like,"  Morse  sug 
gested  one  morning  after  an  hour  in  which  neither  of 
them  had  spoken. 

"I  was  wondering  when  you'd  chirp  up,  Tom," 
Beresford  grinned  cheerfully.  "Sometimes  I  think  I'm 
fed  up  for  life  on  the  hissing  of  snowshoe  runners.  The 
human  voice  sure  sounds  good  up  here.  Yes,  Great  Bear 
Lake.  And  after  that,  where  ?" 

"Up  the  lake,  across  to  the  Mackenzie,  and  down  it 
to  the  ocean,  I'd  say.  He's  makin'  for  the  whaling 


THE  MAN-HUNTERS  READ  SIGN    255 

waters.  Herschel  Island  maybe.  He 's  hoping  to  bump 
into  a  whaler  and  get  down  on  it  to  'Frisco." 

"Your  guess  is  just  as  good  as  any,"  the  Canadian 
admitted.  "He's  cut  out  a  man-sized  job  for  himself. 
I  '11  say  that  for  him.  It 's  a  five-to-one  bet  he  never  gets 
through  alive,  even  if  we  don't  nab  him." 

"What  else  can  he  do?  He's  got  to  keep  going  or  be 
dragged  back  to  be  hanged.  I  'd  travel  too  if  I  were  in 
his  place." 

"So  would  I.  He 's  certainly  hitting  her  up.  Wish  he'd 
break  his  leg  for  a  week  or  two,"  the  constable  said 
airily. 

They  swung  into  a  dense  spruce  swamp  and  jumped 
up  a  half -grown  bear.  He  was  so  close  to  them  that  Tom, 
who  was  breaking  trail,  could  see  his  little  shining  eyes. 
Morse  was  carrying  his  rifle,  in  the  hope  that  he  might 
see  a  lynx  or  a  moose.  The  bear  turned  to  scamper 
away,  but  the  intention  never  became  a  fact.  A  bul 
let  crashed  through  the  head  and  brought  the  animal 
down. 

An  hour  later  they  reached  an  Indian  camp  on  the 
edge  of  a  lake.  On  stages,  built  well  up  from  the  ground, 
drying  fish  were  hanging  out  of  reach  of  the  dogs.  These 
animals  came  charging  toward  the  travelers  as  usual, 
lean,  bristling,  wolfish  creatures  that  never  had  been 
half-tamed. 

Beresford  lashed  them  back  with  the  whip.  Indians 
came  out  from  the  huts,  matted  hair  hanging  over  their 
eyes.  After  the  usual  greetings  and  small  presents  had 
been  made,  the  man-hunters  asked  questions. 

"Great  Bear  Lake  —  wah-he-o-che  (how  far)?" 


356  MAN-SIZE 

The  head  man  opened  his  eyes.  Nobody  in  his  right 
mind  went  to  the  great  water  at  this  time  of  year.  It 
was  maybe  fifteen,  maybe  twenty  days'  travel.  Who 
could  tell?  Were  all  the  fair  skins  mad?  Only  three  days 
since  another  dog-train  had  passed  through  driven  by  a 
big  shaggy  man  who  had  left  them  no  presents  after  he 
had  bought  fish.  Three  whites  in  as  many  days,  and 
before  that  none  but  voyageur  half-breeds  in  twice  that 
number  of  years. 

The  trooper  let  out  a  boyish  whoop.  "Gaining  fast. 
Only  three  days  behind  him,  Tom.  If  our  luck  stands 
up,  he'll  never  reach  the  Great  Bear." 

There  was  reason  back  of  Beresford's  exultant  shout. 
At  least  one  of  West's  dogs  had  bleeding  feet.  This  the 
stained  snow  on  the  trail  told  them.  Either  the  big  man 
had  no  shoes  for  the  animals  or  was  too  careless  to  use 
them  when  needed,  the  constable  had  suggested  to  his 
friend. 

"  It 's  not  carelessness,"  Morse  said.  "  It 's  his  bullying 
nature.  Likely  he's  got  the  shoes,  only  he  won't  put  'em 
on.  He  '11  beat  the  poor  brute  over  the  head  instead  and 
curse  his  luck  when  he  breaks  down.  He's  too  bull- 
headed  to  be  a  good  driver." 

On  the  fourth  day  after  this  they  came  upon  one  of 
the  minor  tragedies  of  sub-Arctic  travel.  The  skeleton 
of  a  dog  lay  beside  the  trail.  Its  bones  had  been  picked 
clean  by  its  ravenous  cannibal  companions. 

"Three  left,"  Beresford  commented.  "He'll  be  fig 
uring  on  picking  up  another  when  he  meets  any  Indians 
or  Eskimos." 

"If  he  does  it  won't  be  any  good  to  work  with  his 


THE  MAN-HUNTERS  READ  SIGN      257 

train.  I  believe  we've  got  him.  He  isn't  twenty-five 
miles  ahead  of  us  right  now." 

"I'd  put  it  at  twenty.  In  about  three  days  now  the 
fireworks  will  begin." 

It  was  the  second  day  after  this  that  they  began  to 
notice  something  peculiar  about  the  trail  they  were  fol 
lowing.  Hitherto  it  had  taken  a  straight  line,  except 
when  the  bad  terrain  had  made  a  detour  advisable. 
Now  it  swayed  uncertainly,  much  as  a  drunken  man 
staggers  down  a  street. 

"What's  wrong  with  him?  It  can't  be  liquor.  Yet  if 
he's  not  drunk,  what's  got  into  him?"  the  soldier  asked 
aloud,  expecting  no  answer  that  explained  this  phenom 
enon. 

Tom  shook  his  head.  "See.  The  Indian 's  drivin' now. 
He  follows  a  straight  enough  line.  You  can  tell  he 's  at 
the  tail  line  by  the  shape  of  the  webs.  And  West's  still 
lurchin'  along  in  a  crazy  way.  He  fell  down  here.  Is 
he  sick,  d'  you  reckon?" 

"Give  it  up.  Anyhow,  he's  in  trouble.  We'll  know 
soon  enough  what  it  is.  Before  night  now  we'll  maybe 
see  them." 

Before  they  had  gone  another  mile,  the  trail  in  the 
snow  showed  another  peculiarity.  It  made  a  wide  half- 
circle  and  was  heading  south  again. 

"He's  given  up.  What's  that  mean?  Out  of  grub, 
d'  you  think?"  Beresford  asked. 

"No.  If  they  had  been,  he'd  have  made  camp  and 
gone  hunting.  We  crossed  musk-ox  sign  to-day,  you 
know." 

"Righto.  Can't  be  that.  He  must  be  sick." 


258  MAN-SIZE 

They  kept  their  eyes  open.  At  any  moment  now  they 
were  likely  to  make  a  discovery.  Since  they  were  in  a 
country  of  scrubby  brush  they  moved  cautiously  to 
prevent  an  ambush.  There  was  just  a  possibility  that 
the  fugitive  might  have  caught  sight  of  them  and  be  pre 
paring  an  unwelcome  surprise.  But  it  was  a  possibility 
that  did  not  look  like  a  probability. 

"Something  gone  'way  off  in  his  plans,"  Morse  said 
after  they  had  mushed  on  the  south  trail  for  an  hour. 
"Looks  like  he  don't  know  what  he's  doing.  Has  he 
gone  crazy?" 

"Might  be  that.  Men  do  in  this  country  a  lot.  We 
don't  know  what  a  tough  time  he's  been  through." 

"I'll  bet  he's  bucked  blizzards  aplenty  in  the  last 
two  months.  Notice  one  thing.  West 's  trailin'  after  the 
guide  like  a  lamb.  He's  makin'  a  sure-enough  drunk 
track.  See  how  the  point  of  his  shoe  caught  the  snow 
there  an'  flung  him  down.  The  Cree  stopped  the  sled 
right  away  so  West  could  get  up.  Why  did  he  do  that? 
And  why  don't  West  ever  stray  a  foot  outa  the  path 
that's  broke?  That's  not  like  him.  He's  always  boss  o' 
the  outfit  —  always  leadin'." 

Beresford  was  puzzled,  too.  "I  don't  get  the  situation. 
It 's  been  pretty  nearly  a  thousand  miles  that  we  've  been 
following  this  trail  —  eight  hundred,  anyhow.  All  the 
way  Bully  West  has  stamped  his  big  foot  on  it  as  boss. 
Now  he  takes  second  place.  The  reason's  beyond  me." 

His  friend's  mind  jumped  at  a  conclusion.  "I  reckon 
I  know  why  he's  followin'  the  straight  and  narrow  path. 
The  guide's  got  a  line  round  his  waist  and  West's  tied 
to  it." 


THE  MAN-HUNTERS  READ  SIGN    259 

"Why?" 

The  sun's  rays,  reflected  from  the  snow  in  a  blinding, 
brilliant  glare,  smote  Morse  full  in  the  eyes.  For  days 
the  white  fields  had  been  very  trying  to  the  sight. 
There  had  been  moments  when  black  spots  had  flickered 
before  him,  when  red-hot  sand  had  been  flung  against 
his  eyeballs  if  he  could  judge  by  the  burning  sensation. 

He  knew  now,  in  a  flash,  what  was  wrong  with  West. 

To  Beresford  he  told  it  in  two  words. 

The  constable  slapped  his  thigh.  "Of  course.  That's 
the  answer." 

Night  fell,  the  fugitives  still  not  in  sight.  The  country 
was  so  rough  that  they  might  be  within  a  mile  or  two 
and  yet  not  be  seen. 

"Better  camp,  I  reckon,"  Morse  suggested. 

"Yes.   Here.  We'll  come  up  with  them  to-morrow." 

They  were  treated  that  evening  to  an  indescribably 
brilliant  pyrotechnic  display  in  the  heavens.  An  aurora 
flashed  across  the  sky  such  as  neither  of  them  had  ever 
seen  before.  The  vault  was  aglow  with  waves  of  red, 
violet,  and  purple  that  danced  and  whirled,  with  fickle, 
inconstant  flashes  of  gold  and  green  and  yellow  bars.  A 
radiant  incandescence  of  great  power  lit  the  arch  and 
flooded  it  with  light  that  poured  through  the  cathedral 
windows  of  the  Most  High. 

At  daybreak  they  were  up.  Quickly  they  breakfasted 
and  loaded.  The  trail  they  followed  was  before  noon  a 
rotten  one,  due  to  a  sudden  rise  in  the  temperature, 
but  it  still  bore  south  steadily. 

They  reached  the  camp  where  West  and  his  guide  had 
spent  the  night.  Another  chapter  of  the  long  story  of 


260  MAN-SIZE 

the  trail  was  written  here.  The  sled  and  the  guide  had 
gone  on  south,  but  West  had  not  been  with  them.  His 
webs  went  wandering  off  at  an  angle,  hesitant  and 
uncertain.  Sometimes  they  doubled  across  the  track  he 
had  already  made. 

Beresford  was  breaking  trail.  His  hand  shot  straight 
out.  In  the  distance  there  was  a  tiny  black  speck  in  the 
waste  of  white.  It  moved. 

Even  yet  the  men  who  had  come  to  bring  the  law  into 
the  Lone  Lands  did  not  relax  their  vigilance.  They 
knew  West's  crafty,  cunning  mind.  This  might  be  a  ruse 
to  trap  them.  When  they  left  the  sled  and  moved  for 
ward,  it  was  with  rifles  ready.  The  hunters  stalked  their 
prey  as  they  would  have  done  a  musk  ox.  Slowly,  noise 
lessly,  they  approached. 

The  figure  was  that  of  a  huge  man.  He  sat  huddled 
in  the  snow,  his  back  to  them.  Despair  was  in  the  droop 
of  the  head  and  the  set  of  the  bowed  shoulders. 

One  of  the  dogs  howled.  The  big  torso  straightened 
instantly.  The  shaggy  head  came  up.  Bully  West  was 
listening  intently.  He  turned  and  looked  straight  at 
them,  but  he  gave  no  sign  of  knowing  they  were  there. 
The  constable  took  a  step  and  the  hissing  of  the  shoe- 
runner  sounded. 

"I'm  watchin'  you,  Stomak-o-sox,"  the  heavy  voice 
of  the  convict  growled.  "  Can't  fool  me.  I  see  every 
step  you're  takin'." 

It  was  an  empty  boast,  almost  pathetic  in  its  futility. 
Morse  and  Beresford  moved  closer,  still  without  speech. 

West  broke  into  violent,  impotent  cursing.  "You're 
there,  you  damned  wood  Cree!  Think  I  don't  know? 


THE  MAN-HUNTERS  READ  SIGN    261 

Think  I  can't  see  you?  Well,  I  can.  Plain  as  you  can 
see  me.  You  come  here  an'  get  me,  or  I  '11  skin  you  alive 
like  I  done  last  week.  Hear  me?" 

The  voice  rose  to  a  scream.  It  betrayed  terror  —  the 
horrible  deadly  fear  of  being  left  alone  to  perish  in  the 
icy  wastes  of  the  North. 

Beresford  crept  close  and  waved  a  hand  in  front  of 
the  big  man's  eyes.  West  did  not  know  it.  He  babbled 
vain  and  foolish  threats  at  his  guide. 

The  convict  had  gone  blind  —  snow-blind,  and  Sto- 
mak-o-sox  had  left  him  alone  to  make  a  push  for  his  own 
life  while  there  was  still  time. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 
SNOW-BLIND 

WEST  grinned  up  at  the  officer,  his  yellow  canines  show 
ing  like  tusks.  His  matted  face  was  an  unlovely  sight. 
In  it  stark,  naked  fear  struggled  with  craftiness  and 
cruelty. 

"  Good  you  came  back  —  good  for  you.  I  ain't  blind. 
I  been  foolin'  you  all  along.  Wanted  to  try  you  out. 
Now  we'll  mush.  Straight  for  the  big  lake.  North  by 
west  like  we  been  going.  Understand,  Stomak-o-sox? 
I'll  not  beat  yore  head  off  this  time,  but  if  you  ever 
try  any  monkey  tricks  with  Bully  West  again  —  "  He 
let  the  threat  die  out  in  a  sound  of  grinding  teeth. 

Beresford  spoke.  His  voice  was  gentle.  Vile  though 
this  murderer  was,  there  was  something  pitiable  in  his 
condition.  One  cannot  see  a  Colossus  of  strength  and 
energy  stricken  to  helplessness  without  some  sense 
of  compassion. 

"It's  not  Stomak-o-sox.  We're  two  of  the  North- 
West  Mounted.  You  're  under  arrest  for  breaking  prison 
and  for  killing  Tim  Kelly." 

The  information  stunned  West.  He  stared  up  out  of 
sightless  eyes.  So  far  as  he  had  known,  no  member  of 
the  Mounted  was  within  five  hundred  miles  of  him.  Yet 
the  law  had  stretched  out  its  long  arm  to  snatch  him 
back  from  this  Arctic  waste  after  he  had  traveled  nearly 
fifteen  hundred  miles.  It  was  incredible  that  there  could 
exist  such  a  police  force  on  earth. 


SNOW-BLIND  263 

" Got  me,  did  you?"  he  growled.  He  added  the  boast 
that  he  could  not  keep  back.  "  Well,  you  'd  never  'a*  got 
me  if  I  had  n't  gone  blind  —  never  in  this  world.  There 
ain't  any  two  of  yore  damned  spies  could  land  Bully 
West  when  he's  at  himself." 

"Had  breakfast?" 

He  broke  into  a  string  of  curses.  "No,  our  grub's 
runnin'  low.  That  wood  Cree  slipped  away  with  all  we 
had.  Wish  I'd  killed  him  last  week  when  I  skinned  him 
with  the  dog- whip." 

"How  long  have  you  been  blind?" 

"It's  been  comin'  on  two-three  days.  This  damned 
burnin'  glare  from  the  snow.  Yesterday  they  give  out 
completely.  I  tied  myself  by  a  line  to  the  Injun. 
Knew  I  could  n't  trust  him.  After  all  I  done  for  him 
too." 

"Did  you  know  he  was  traveling  south  with  you  — 
had  been  since  yesterday  afternoon?" 

"No,  was  he?"  Again  West  fell  into  his  natural 
speech  of  invective.  "When  I  meet  up  with  him,  I'll 
sure  enough  fill  him  full  o'  slugs,"  he  concluded  sav 
agely. 

"You're  not  likely  to  meet  him  again.  We've  come 
to  take  you  back  to  prison." 

Morse  brought  the  train  up  and  the  hungry  man  was 
fed.  They  treated  his  eyes  with  the  simple  remedies 
the  North  knows  and  bound  them  with  a  handkerchief 
to  keep  out  the  fierce  light  reflected  from  the  snow. 

Afterward,  they  attached  him  by  a  line  to  the  driver. 
He  stumbled  along  behind.  Sometimes  he  caught  his 
foot  or  slipped  and  plunged  down  into  the  snow.  No- 


264  MAN-SIZE 

body  had  ever  called  him  a  patient  man.  Whenever 
any  mishap  occurred,  he  polluted  the  air  with  his  vile 
speech. 

They  made  slow  progress,  for  the  pace  had  to  be  regu 
lated  to  suit  the  prisoner. 

Day  succeeded  day,  each  with  its  routine  much  the 
same  as  the  one  before.  They  made  breakfast,  broke 
camp,  packed,  and  mushed.  The  swish  of  the  runners 
sounded  from  morning  till  night  fell.  Food  began  to 
run  scarce.  Once  they  left  the  blind  man  at  the  camp 
while  they  hunted  wood  buffalo.  It  was  a  long,  hard 
business.  They  came  back  empty-handed  after  a  two- 
day  chase,  but  less  than  a  mile  from  camp  they  sighted 
a  half -grown  polar  bear  and  dropped  it  before  the  animal 
had  a  chance  to  move. 

One  happy  hour  they  got  through  the  Land  of  Little 
Sticks  and  struck  the  forests  again. 

They  had  a  blazing  fire  again  for  the  first  time  in  six 
weeks.  Brush  and  sticks  and  logs  went  into  it  till  it 
roared  furiously. 

Morse  turned  from  replenishing  it  to  notice  that  West 
had  removed  the  bandage  from  his  eyes. 

"Better  keep  it  on,"  the  young  man  advised. 

"  I  was  changin'  it.  Too  tight.  Gives  me  a  headache," 
the  convict  answered  sulkily. 

"Can  you  see  anything  at  all  yet?" 

"Not  a  thing.  Looks  to  me  like  I  never  would." 

Tom  turned  his  head  for  him,  so  that  he  faced  the 
blaze  squarely.  "No  light  at  all?" 

"Nope.  Don't  reckon  I  ever  will  see." 

"Maybe  you  will.   I've  known  cases  of  snow-blind- 


SNOW-BLIND  265 

ness  where  they  could  n't  see  for  a  month  an*  came  out 
all  right." 

"Hurts  like  blazes,"  growled  the  big  fellow. 

"I  know.  But  not  as  bad  as  it  did,  does  it?  That 
salve  has  helped  some." 

The  two  young  fellows  took  care  of  the  man  as  though 
he  had  been  a  brother.  They  bathed  his  eyes,  fed  him, 
guided  him,  encouraged  him.  He  was  a  bad  lot  —  the 
worst  that  either  of  them  had  known.  But  he  was  in 
trouble  and  filled  with  self-pity.  Never  ill  before,  a 
giant  of  strength  and  energy,  his  condition  now  ap 
parently  filled  him  writh  despair. 

He  would  sit  hunched  down  before  the  fire,  head 
bowed  in  his  hands,  a  mountain  of  dole  and  woe.  Some 
times  he  talked,  and  he  blamed  every  one  but  himself 
for  his  condition.  He  never  had  had  a  square  deal. 
Every  one  was  against  him.  It  was  a  rotten  world. 
Then  he  would  fall  to  cursing  God  and  man. 

In  some  ways  he  was  less  trouble  than  if  he  had  been 
able  to  see.  He  was  helpless  and  had  to  trust  to  them. 
His  safety  depended  on  their  safety.  He  could  not  strike 
at  them  without  injuring  himself.  No  matter  how  much 
he  cringed  at  the  thought  of  being  dragged  back  to 
punishment,  he  shrank  still  more  from  the  prospect  of 
death  in  the  snow  wastes.  The  situation  galled  him. 
Every  decent  word  he  gave  them  came  grudgingly, 
and  he  still  snarled  and  complained  and  occasionally 
bullied  as  though  he  had  the  whip  hand. 

"A  nice  specimen  of  ursus  harrib&a,"  Beresford  mur 
mured  to  his  companion  one  day.  "Thought  he  was 
game,  anyhow,  but  he 's  a  yellow  quitter.  Acts  as  though 


266  MAN-SIZE 

we  were  to  blame  for  his  blindness  and  for  what's  wait 
ing  for  him  at  the  end  of  the  journey.  I  like  a  man  to 
stand  the  gaff  when  it's  prodding  him." 

Morse  nodded.  "  Look  out  for  him.  I  've  got  a  notion 
in  the  back  o'  my  head  that  he 's  beginning  to  see  again. 
He  'd  kill  us  in  a  holy  minute  if  he  dared.  Only  his  blind 
ness  keeps  him  from  it.  What  do  you  say?  Shall  we 
handcuff  him  nights?" 

"Not  necessary,"  the  constable  said.  "He  can't  see  a 
thing.  Watch  him  groping  for  that  stick." 

"All  his  brains  run  to  cunning.  Don't  forget  that. 
Why  should  he  have  to  feel  so  long  for  that  stick?  He 
laid  it  down  himself  a  minute  ago.  Tryin'  to  slip  one 
over  on  us  maybe." 

The  Canadian  looked  at  the  lean,  brown  face  of  his 
friend  and  grinned.  "I  Ve  a  notion  our  imaginations  too 
are  getting  a  bit  jumpy.  We've  had  one  bully  time  on 
this  trip  —  with  the  reverse  English.  It 's  all  in  the 
day's  work  to  buck  blizzards  and  starve  and  freeze, 
though  I  would  n't  be  surprised  if  our  systems  were 
pretty  well  fed  up  with  grief  before  we  caught  Mr.  Bully 
West.  Since  then  —  well,  you  could  n't  call  him  a  cheer 
ful  traveling  companion,  could  you?  A  dozen  times  a 
day  I  want  to  rip  loose  and  tell  him  how  much  I  don't 
think  of  him." 

"Still—" 

"We'll  keep  an  eye  on  him.  If  necessary,  it'll  be  the 
bracelets  for  him.  I'd  hate  to  have  the  Inspector  send 
in  a  report  to  headquarters,  '  Constable  Beresf  ord  miss 
ing  in  the  line  of  duty.'  I've  a  prejudice  against  being 
shot  in  the  back." 


SNOW-BLIND  267 

"That's  one  of  the  reasons  I'm  here  —  to  see  you're 
not  if  I  can  help  it." 

Breesford's  boyish  face  lit  up.  He  understood  what 
his  friend  meant.  "Say,  Faraway  is  n't  New  York  or 
London  or  even  Toronto.  But  how'd  you  like  to  be 
sitting  down  to  one  of  Jessie  McRae's  suppers?  A  bit  of 
broiled  venison  done  to  a  juicy  turn,  potatoes,  turnips, 
hot  biscuits  spread  with  raspberry  jam.  By  jove,  it 
makes  the  mouth  water." 

"And  a  slice  of  plum  puddin'  to  top  off  with,"  sug 
gested  Morse,  bringing  his  own  memory  into  play. 
"Don't  ask  me  how  I'd  like  it.  That's  a  justifiable  ex 
cuse  for  murder.  Get  busy  on  that  rubaboo.  Our 
guest's  howlin'  for  his  dinner." 

The  faint  suspicions  of  Morse  made  the  officers  more 
wary.  They  watched  their  prisoner  a  little  closer. 
Neither  of  them  quite  believed  that  he  was  recovering 
his  sight.  It  was  merely  a  possibility  to  be  guarded 
against. 

But  the  guess  of  Morse  had  been  true.  It  had  been  a 
week  since  flashes  of  light  had  first  come  to  West  faintly. 
He  began  to  distinguish  objects  in  a  hazy  way.  Every 
day  he  could  see  better.  Now  he  could  tell  Morse  from 
Beresford,  one  dog  from  another.  Give  him  a  few  more 
days  and  he  would  have  as  good  vision  as  before  he  had 
gone  blind. 

All  this  he  hid  cunningly,  as  a  miser  does  his  gold. 
For  his  warped,  cruel  brain  was  planning  death  to  these 
two  men.  After  that,  another  plunge  into  the  North 
for  life  and  freedom. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

THE  WILD  BEAST  LEAPS 

TOM  MORSE  was  chopping  wood.  He  knew  how  to  han 
dle  an  axe.  His  strokes  fell  sure  and  strong,  with  the 
full  circling  sweep  of  the  expert. 

The  young  tree  crashed  down  and  he  began  to  lop 
off  its  branches.  Halfway  up  the  trunk  he  stopped  and 
raised  his  head  to  listen. 

No  sound  had  come  to  him.  None  came  now.  But 
clear  as  a  bell  he  heard  the  voice  of  Win  Beresford 
calling. 

"Help!  Help!" 

It  was  not  a  cry  that  had  issued  from  his  friend's 
throat.  Tom  knew  that.  But  it  was  real.  It  had  sprung 
out  of  his  dire  need  from  the  heart,  perhaps  in  the  one 
instant  of  time  left  him,  and  it  had  leaped  silently  across 
space  straight  to  the  heart  of  his  friend. 

Tom  kicked  into  his  snowshoes  and  began  to  run.  He 
held  the  axe  in  his  hand,  gripped  near  the  haft.  A 
couple  of  hundred  yards,  perhaps,  lay  between  him  and 
camp,  which  was  just  over  the  brow  of  a  small  hill. 
The  bushes  flew  past  as  he  swung  to  his  stride.  Never 
had  he  skimmed  the  crust  faster,  but  his  feet  seemed  to 
be  weighted  with  lead.  Then,  as  he  topped  the  rise,  he 
saw  the  disaster  he  had  dreaded. 

The  constable  was  crumpling  to  the  ground,  his  body 
slack  and  inert,  while  the  giant  slashed  at  him  with  a 
club  of  firewood  he  had  snatched  from  the  ground.  The 


THE  WILD  BEAST  LEAPS  269 

upraised  arm  of  the  soldier  broke  the  force  of  the  blow, 
but  Morse  guessed  by  the  way  the  arm  fell  that  the 
bone  had  snapped. 

At  the  sound  of  the  scraping  runners,  West  whirled. 
He  lunged  savagely.  Even  as  Tom  ducked,  a  sharp 
pain  shot  through  his  leg  from  the  force  of  the  glancing 
blow.  The  axe-head  swung  like  a  circle  of  steel.  It 
struck  the  convict's  fur  cap.  The  fellow  went  down  like 
an  ox  in  a  slaughter-house. 

Tom  took  one  look  at  him  and  ran  to  his  friend. 
Beresford  was  a  sorry  sight.  He  lay  unconscious,  head 
and  face  battered,  the  blood  from  his  wounds  staining 
the  snow. 

The  man-hunters  had  come  into  the  wilderness  pre 
pared  for  emergencies.  Jessie  McRae  had  prepared  a 
small  medicine  case  as  a  present  for  the  constable. 
Morse  ran  to  the  sled  and  found  this.  He  unrolled  ban 
dages  and  after  he  had  washed  the  wounds  bound  them. 
As  he  was  about  to  examine  the  arm,  he  glanced 
up. 

For  a  fraction  of  a  second  West's  wolfish  eyes  glared 
at  him  before  they  took  on  again  the  stare  of  blindness. 
The  man  had  moved.  He  had  hitched  himself  several 
yards  nearer  a  rifle  which  stood  propped  against  a 
balsam. 

The  revolver  of  the  deputy  constable  came  to  light. 
"Stop  right  where  you're  at.  Don't  take  another  step." 

The  convict  snarled  rage,  but  he  did  not  move.  Some 
sure  instinct  warned  him  what  the  cold  light  in  the  eyes 
of  his  captor  meant,  that  if  he  crept  one  inch  farther 
toward  the  weapon  he  would  die  in  his  tracks. 


270  MAN-SIZE 

"He  —  he  jumped  me,"  the  murderer  said  hoarsely. 

"Liar!  You've  been  shammin'  for  a  week  to  get  a 
chance  at  us.  I  'd  like  to  gun  you  now  and  be  done  with 
it." 

"Don't."  West  moistened  dry  lips.  "Honest  to  God 
he  jumped  me.  Got  mad  at  somethin'  I  said.  I 
would  n't  lie  to  you,  Tom." 

Morse  kept  him  covered,  circled  round  him  to  the 
rifle,  and  from  there  to  the  sled.  One  eye  still  on  the 
desperado,  he  searched  for  the  steel  handcuffs.  They 
were  gone.  He  knew  instantly  that  some  time  within 
the  past  day  or  two  West  had  got  a  chance  to  drop  them 
in  the  snow. 

He  found  rawhide  thongs. 

"Lie  in  the  snow,  face  down,"  he  ordered.  "Hands 
behind  you  and  crossed  at  the  wrists." 

Presently  the  prisoner  was  securely  tied.  Morse  fas 
tened  him  to  the  sled  and  returned  to  Beresford. 

The  arm  was  broken  above  the  wrist,  just  as  he  had 
feared.  He  set  it  as  best  he  could,  binding  it  with 
splints. 

The  young  officer  groaned  and  opened  his  eyes.  He 
made  a  motion  to  rise. 

"Don't  get  up,"  said  Morse.  "You've  been  hurt." 

"Hurt?"  Beresford's  puzzled  gaze  wandered  to  the 
prisoner.  A  flash  of  understanding  lit  it.  "He  asked 
me  —  to  light  —  his  pipe  —  and  when  I  —  turned  — 
he  hit  —  me  —  with  a  club,"  the  battered  man  whis 
pered. 

"About  how  I  figured  it." 

"Afraid  —  I'm  —  done  —  in." 


THE  WILD  BEAST  LEAPS  271 

"Not  yet,  old  pal.  We'll  make  a  fight  for  it,"  the 
Montanan  answered. 

"I'm  sick."  The  soldier's  head  sank  down.  His  eyes 
closed. 

All  the  splendid,  lithe  strength  of  his  athletic  youth 
had  been  beaten  out  of  him.  To  Morse  it  looked  as 
though  he  were  done  for.  Was  it  possible  for  one  to 
take  such  a  terrific  mauling  and  not  succumb?  If  he 
were  at  a  hospital,  under  the  care  of  expert  surgeons  and 
nurses,  with  proper  food  and  attention,  he  might  have  a 
chance  in  a  hundred.  But  in  this  Arctic  waste,  many 
hundred  miles  from  the  nearest  doctor,  no  food  but  the 
coarsest  to  eat,  it  would  be  a  miracle  if  he  survived. 

The  bitter  night  was  drawing  in.  Morse  drove  West  in 
front  of  him  to  bring  back  the  wood  he  had  been  cutting. 
He  made  the  man  prepare  the  rubaboo  for  their  supper. 
After  the  convict  had  eaten,  he  bound  his  hands  again 
and  let  him  lie  down  in  his  blankets  beside  the  fire. 

Morse  did  not  sleep.  He  sat  beside  his  friend  and 
watched  the  fever  mount  in  him  till  he  was  wildly  delir 
ious.  Such  nursing  as  was  possible  he  gave. 

The  prisoner,  like  a  chained  wild  beast,  glowered  at 
him  hungrily.  Tom  knew  that  if  West  found  a  chance 
to  kill,  he  would  strike.  No  scruple  would  deter  him. 
The  fellow  was  without  conscience,  driven  by  the  fear  of 
the  fate  that  drew  nearer  with  every  step  southward. 
His  safety  and  the  desire  of  revenge  marched  together. 
Beresford  was  out  of  the  way.  It  would  be  his  compan 
ion's  turn  next. 

After  a  time  the  great  hulk  of  a  man  fell  asleep  and 
snored  stertorously.  But  Tom  did  not  sleep.  He  dared 


272  MAN-SIZE 

not.  He  had  to  keep  vigilant  guard  to  save  both  his 
friend's  life  and  his  own.  For  though  West's  hands 
were  tied,  it  would  be  the  work  of  only  a  minute  to  burn 
away  with  a  live  coal  the  thongs  that  bound  them. 

The  night  wore  away.  There  was  no  question  of 
travel.  Beresford  was  in  the  grip  of  a  raging  fever  and 
could  not  be  moved.  Morse  made  West  chop  wood  while 
he  stood  over  him,  rifle  in  hand.  They  were  short  of 
food  and  had  expected  to  go  hunting  next  day.  The 
supplies  might  last  at  best  six  or  seven  more  meals. 
What  was  to  be  done  then?  Morse  could  not  go  and 
leave  West  where  he  could  get  at  the  man  who  had  put 
him  in  prison  and  with  a  dog-train  to  carry  him  north. 
Nor  could  he  let  West  have  a  rifle  with  which  to  go  in 
search  of  game. 

There  were  other  problems  that  made  the  situation 
impossible.  Another  night  was  at  hand,  and  again  Tom 
must  keep  awake  to  save  himself  and  his  friend  from 
the  gorilla-man  who  watched  him,  gloated  over  him, 
waited  for  the  moment  to  come  when  he  could  safely 
strike.  And  after  that  there  would  be  other  nights  — 
many  of  them. 

What  should  he  do?  What  could  he  do?  While  he  sat 
beside  the  delirious  officer,  Tom  pondered  that  question. 
On  the  other  side  of  the  fire  lay  the  prisoner.  Triumph 
—  a  horrible,  cruel,  menacing  triumph  —  rode  in  his 
eye  and  strutted  in  his  straddling  walk  when  he  got  up. 
His  hour  was  coming.  It  was  coming  fast. 

Once  Tom  fell  asleep  for  a  cat-nap.  He  caught  him 
self  nodding,  and  with  a  jerk  flung  back  his  head  and 
himself  to  wakefulness.  In  the  air  was  a  burning  odor. 


THE  WILD  BEAST  LEAPS  273 

Instinct  told  him  what  it  was.  West  had  been  tampering 
with  the  rawhide  thongs  round  his  wrists,  had  been  try 
ing  to  burn  them  away. 

He  made  sure  that  the  fellow  was  still  fast,  then  drank 
a  tin  cup  of  strong  tea.  After  he  had  fed  the  sick  man  a 
little  caribou  broth,  persuading  him  with  infinite  pa 
tience  to  take  it,  a  spoonful  at  a  time,  Morse  sat  down 
again  to  wear  out  the  hours  of  darkness. 

The  problem  that  pressed  on  him  could  no  longer  be 
evaded.  A  stark  decision  lay  before  him.  To  postpone 
it  was  to  choose  one  of  the  alternatives.  He  knew  now, 
almost  beyond  any  possibility  of  doubt,  that  either 
West  must  die  or  else  he  and  his  friend.  If  he  had  not 
snatched  himself  awake  so  promptly  an  hour  ago,  Win 
and  he  would  already  be  dead  men.  It  might  be  that 
the  constable  was  going  to  die,  anyhow,  but  he  had  a 
right  to  his  chance  of  life. 

On  the  other  hand  there  was  one  rigid  rule  of  the 
North- West  Mounted.  The  Force  prided  itself  on  living 
up  to  it  literally.  When  a  man  was  sent  out  to  get  a 
prisoner,  he  brought  him  in  alive.  It  was  a  tradition. 
The  Mounted  did  not  choose  the  easy  way  of  killing 
lawbreakers  because  of  the  difficulty  of  capturing  them. 
They  walked  through  danger,  usually  with  aplomb, 
got  their  man,  and  brought  him  in. 

That  was  what  Beresford  had  done  with  Pierre  Pou- 
lette  after  the  Frenchman  had  killed  Buckskin  Jerry. 
He  had  followed  the  man  for  months,  captured  him, 
lived  with  him  alone  for  a  fourth  of  a  year  in  the  deep 
snows,  and  brought  him  back  to  punishment.  It  was 
easy  enough  to  plead  that  this  situation  was  a  wholly 


274  MAN-SIZE 

different  one.  Pierre  Poulette  was  no  such  dangerous 
wild  beast  as  Bully  West.  Win  did  not  have  with  him 
a  companion  wounded  almost  to  death  who  had  to  be 
nursed  back  to  health,  one  struck  down  by  the  prisoner 
treacherously.  There  was  just  a  fighting  chance  for  the 
officers  to  get  back  to  Desolation  if  West  was  eliminated 
from  the  equation.  Tom  knew  he  would  have  a  man's 
work  cut  out  for  him  to  win  through  —  without  the 
handicap  of  the  prisoner. 

Deep  in  his  heart  he  believed  that  it  was  West's  life 
or  theirs.  It  was  n't  humanly  possible,  in  addition  to 
all  the  other  difficulties  that  pressed  on  him,  to  guard 
this  murderer  and  bring  him  back  for  punishment. 
There  was  no  alternative,  it  seemed  to  Tom.  Thinking 
could  not  change  the  conditions.  It  might  be  sooner,  it 
might  be  later,  but  under  existing  circumstances  the 
desperado  would  find  his  chance  to  attack,  if  he  were 
alive  to  take  it. 

The  fellow's  life  was  forfeit.  As  soon  as  he  was  turned 
over  to  the  State,  it  would  be  exacted  of  him.  Since  his 
assault  on  Beresford,  surely  he  had  lost  all  claim  to  con 
sideration  as  a  human  being. 

Just  now  there  were  only  three  men  in  the  world  so 
far  as  they  were  concerned.  These  three  constituted 
society.  Beresford,  his  mind  still  wandering  with  inco 
herent  mutterings,  was  a  non-voting  member.  He,  Tom 
Morse,  must  be  judge  and  jury.  He  must,  if  the  prisoner 
were  convicted,  play  a  much  more  horrible  role.  In 
the  silence  of  the  cold  sub-Arctic  night  he  fought  the 
battle  out  while  automatically  he  waited  on  his  friend. 

West  snored  on  the  other  side  of  the  fire. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

NEAR  THE  END  OF  A  LONG  CROOKED  TRAIL 

WHEN  West  awoke,  Morse  was  whittling  on  a  piece  of 
wood  with  his  sharp  hunting-knife.  It  was  a  flat  section 
from  a  spruce,  and  it  had  been  trimmed  with  an  axe 
till  it  resembled  a  shake  in  shape. 

The  outlaw's  curiosity  overcame  his  sullenness  at 
last.  It  made  him  jumpy,  anyhow,  to  sit  there  in  silence 
except  for  the  muttering  of  the  sick  man. 

"Whajamakin'?"  he  demanded. 

Morse  said  nothing.  He  smoothed  the  board  to  his 
satisfaction,  then  began  lettering  on  it  with  a  pencil. 

"I  said  whajadoin',"  growled  West,  after  another 
silence. 

The  special  constable  looked  at  him,  and  in  the  young 
man's  eyes  there  was  something  that  made  the  murderer 
shiver. 

"I'm  making  a  tombstone." 

"What?"  West  felt  a  drench  of  ice  at  his  heart. 

"A  marker  for  a  grave." 

"For  —  for  him?  Maybe  he  won't  die.  Looks  better 
to  me.  Fever  ain't  so  high." 

"It 'snot  for  him." 

West  moistened  his  dry  lips  with  his  tongue.  "You 
will  have  yore  HT  joke,  eh?  Who's  it  for?" 

"For  you." 

"For  me?"  The  man's  fear  burst  from  him  in  a 
shriek.  "Whajamean  for  me?" 


276  MAN-SIZE 

From  the  lettering  Morse  read  aloud.  "'  Bully  West, 
Executed,  Some  Time  late  in  March,  1875.'"  And  be 
neath  it,  "'May  God  Have  Mercy  on  His  Soul.'" 

Tiny  beads  of  sweat  gathered  on  the  convict's  clammy 
forehead.  "You  aimin'  to  —  to  murder  me?"  he  asked 
hoarsely. 

"To  execute  you." 

"With  —  without  a  trial?  My  God,  you  can't  do 
that!  I  got  a  right  to  a  trial." 

"You've  been  tried  —  and  condemned.  I  settled  all 
that  in  the  night." 

"But  —  it  ain't  legal.  Goddlemighty,  you  got  no 
right  to  act  thataway.  All  you  can  do  is  to  take  me  back 
to  the  courts."  The  heavy  voice  broke  again  to  a  scream. 

Morse  slipped  the  hunting-knife  back  into  its  case. 
He  looked  steadily  at  the  prisoner.  In  his  eyes  there  was 
no  anger,  no  hatred.  But  back  of  the  sadness  in  them 
was  an  implacable  resolution. 

"Courts  and  the  law  are  a  thousand  miles  away,"  he 
said.  "You  know  your  crimes.  You  murdered  Tim 
Kelly  treacherously.  You  planned  to  spoil  an  innocent 
girl's  life  by  driving  her  to  worse  than  death.  You  shot 
your  partner  in  the  back  after  he  did  his  best  to  help 
you  escape.  You  tortured  Onistah  and  would  have 
killed  him  if  we  had  n't  come  in  time.  You  assaulted  my 
friend  here  and  he'll  probably  die  from  his  wounds.  It's 
the  end  of  the  long  trail  for  you,  Bully  West.  Inside  of 
half  an  hour  you  will  be  dead.  If  you've  anything  to 
say  —  if  you  can  make  your  peace  with  heaven  — 
don't  waste  a  moment." 

The  face  of  West  went  gray.  He  stared  at  the  other 


NEAR  THE  END  OF  A  LONG  TRAIL    277 

man,  the  horror-filled  eyes  held  fascinated.  "You  — 
you're  tryin'  to  scare  me,"  he  faltered.  "You  would  n't 
do  that.  You  could  n't.  It  ain't  allowed  by  the  Com 
missioner."  One  of  the  bound  arms  twitched  involun 
tarily.  The  convict  knew  that  he  was  lost.  He  had  a 
horrible  conviction  that  this  man  meant  to  do  as  he  had 
said. 

The  face  of  Morse  was  inexorable  as  fate  itself,  but 
inside  he  was  a  river  of  rushing  sympathy.  This  man 
was  bad.  He  himself  had  forced  the  circumstances  that 
made  it  impossible  to  let  him  live.  None  the  less  Tom 
felt  like  a  murderer.  The  thing  he  had  to  do  was  so 
horribly  cold-blooded.  If  this  had  been  a  matter  be 
tween  the  two  of  them,  he  could  at  least  have  given  the 
fellow  a  chance  for  his  life.  But  not  now  —  not  with 
Win  Beresford  in  the  condition  he  was.  If  he  were  going 
to  save  his  friend,  he  could  not  take  the  chances  of  a  duel. 

"Ten  minutes  now,"  Morse  said.  His  voice  was 
hoarse  and  low.  He  felt  his  nerves  twitching,  a  tense 
aching  in  the  throat. 

"I  always  liked  you  fine,  Tom,"  the  convict  pleaded 
desperately.  "Me  'n' you  was  always  good  pals.  You 
would  n't  do  me  dirt  thataway  now.  If  you  knew  the 
right  o'  things  —  how  that  Kelly  kep'  a-devilin'  me, 
how  Whaley  was  layin'  to  gun  me  when  he  got  a  chanct, 
how  I  stood  up  for  the  McRae  girl  an'  protected  her 
against  him.  Goddlemighty,  man,  you  ain't  aimin' 
to  kill  me  like  a  wolf!"  The  shriek  of  uncontrollable 
terror  lifted  into  his  voice  once  more.  "I  ain't  ready  to 
die.  Gimme  a  chance,  Tom.  I'll  change  my  ways.  I 
swear  I  will.  I'll  do  like  you  say  every  minute.  I'll 


278  MAN-SIZE 

nurse  Beresford.  Me,  I'm  a  fine  nurse.  If  you'll  gimme 
a  week  —  jus'  one  more  week.  That  ain't  much  to  ask. 
So's  I  can  git  ready." 

The  man  slipped  to  his  knees  and  began  to  crawl 
toward  Morse.  The  young  man  got  up,  his  teeth  set. 
He  could  not  stand  much  of  this  sort  of  thing  without 
collapsing  himself. 

"  Get  up,"  he  said.  "  We  're  going  over  the  hill  there." 

<;No  — no  — no!" 

It  took  Morse  five  minutes  to  get  the  condemned 
man  to  his  feet.  The  fellow's  face  was  ashen.  His 
knees  shook. 

Tom  was  in  almost  as  bad  a  condition  himself. 

Beresford 's  high  voice  cut  in.  In  his  delirium  he  was 
perhaps  living  over  again  his  experience  with  Pierre 
Poulette. 

"  Maintiens  le  droit.  Get  your  man  and  bring  him  in. 
Tough  sledding.  Never  mind.  Go  through,  old  fellow. 
Bring  him  in.  That's  what  you're  sent  for.  Hogtie 
him.  Drag  him  with  a  rope  around  his  neck.  Get  him 
back  somehow." 

The  words  struck  Tom  motionless.  It  was  as  though 
some  voice  were  speaking  to  him  through  the  sick  man's 
lips.  He  waited. 

"Righto,  sir,"  the  soldier  droned  on.  "See  what  I 
can  do,  sir.  Have  a  try  at  it,  anyhow."  And  again  he 
murmured  the  motto  of  the  Mounted  Police. 

Tom  had  excused  himself  for  what  he  thought  it  was 
his  duty  to  do  on  the  ground  that  it  was  not  humanly 
possible  to  save  his  friend  and  bring  West  back.  It 
came  to  him  in  a  flash  that  the  Mounted  Police  were 


NEAR  THE  END  OF  A  LONG  TRAIL    279 

becoming  so  potent  a  power  for  law  and  order  because 
they  never  asked  whether  the  job  assigned  them  was 
possible.  They  went  ahead  and  did  it  or  died  trying  to 
do  it.  It  did  not  matter  primarily  whether  Beresford 
and  he  got  back  alive  or  not.  If  West  murdered  them, 
other  red-coats  would  take  the  trail  and  get  him. 

What  he,  Tom  Morse,  had  to  do  was  to  carry  on. 
He  could  not  choose  the  easy  way,  even  though  it  was  a 
desperately  hard  one  for  him.  He  could  not  make  him 
self  a  judge  over  this  murderer,  with  power  of  life  and 
death.  The  thing  that  had  been  given  him  to  do  was  to 
bring  West  to  Faraway.  He  had  no  choice  in  the  matter. 
Win  or  lose,  he  had  to  play  the  hand  out  as  it  was  dealt 
him. 


CHAPTER  XXXVni 
OVER  A  ROTTING  TRAIL 

TOM  believed  that  Beresford's  delirious  words  had  con 
demned  them  both  to  death.  He  could  not  nurse  his 
friend,  watch  West  night  and  day,  keep  the  camp  sup 
plied  with  food,  and  cover  the  hundreds  of  miles  of 
bleak  snow  fields  which  stretched  between  them  and 
the  nearest  settlement.  He  did  not  think  that  any  one 
man  lived  who  was  capable  of  succeeding  in  such  a  task. 

Yet  his  first  feeling  was  of  immediate  relief.  The  hor 
rible  duty  that  had  seemed  to  be  laid  upon  him  was  not 
a  duty  at  all.  He  saw  his  course  quite  simply.  All  he 
had  to  do  was  to  achieve  the  impossible.  If  he  failed 
in  it,  he  would  go  down  like  a  soldier  in  the  day's  work. 
He  would  have,  anyhow,  no  torturings  of  conscience,  no 
blight  resting  upon  him  till  the  day  of  his  death. 

"You're  reprieved,  West,"  he  announced  simply. 

The  desperado  staggered  to  the  sled  and  leaned 
against  it  faintly.  His  huge  body  swayed.  The  revul 
sion  was  almost  too  much  for  him. 

"I  —  I  —  knowed  you  could  n't  treat  an  old  pardner 
thataway,  Tom,"  he  murmured. 

Morse  took  the  man  out  to  a  fir  tree.  He  carried  with 
him  a  blanket,  a  buffalo  robe,  and  a  part  of  the  dog 
harness. 

"Whad  you  aimin'  to  do?"  asked  West  uneasily. 
He  was  not  sure  yet  that  he  was  out  of  the  woods. 

"Roll  up  in  the  blankets,"  ordered  Morse. 


OVER  A  ROTTING  TRAIL  281 

The  fellow  looked  at  his  grim  face  and  did  as  he  was 
told.  Tom  tied  him  to  the  tree,  after  making  sure  that 
his  hands  were  fast  behind  him. 

"  I  '11  freeze  here,"  the  convict  complained. 

The  two  officers  were  lean  and  gaunt  from  hard  work 
and  insufficient  nourishment,  but  West  was  still  sleek 
and  well  padded  with  flesh.  He  had  not  missed  a  meal, 
and  during  the  past  weeks  he  had  been  a  passenger.  All 
the  hard  work,  the  packing  at  portages,  the  making  of 
camp,  the  long,  wearing  days  of  hunting,  had  fallen 
upon  the  two  whose  prisoner  he  was.  He  could  stand  a 
bit  of  hardship,  Tom  decided. 

"  No  such  luck,"  he  said  brusquely.  "  And  I  would  n't 
try  to  break  away  if  I  were  you.  I  can't  kill  you,  but 
I  '11  thrash  you  with  the  dog-whip  if  you  make  me  any 
trouble." 

Morse  called  Cuffy  and  set  the  dog  to  watch  the 
bound  man.  He  did  not  know  whether  the  St.  Bernard 
would  do  this,  but  he  was  glad  to  see  that  the  leader 
of  the  train  understood  at  once  and  settled  down  in  the 
snow  to  sleep  with  one  eye  watchful  of  West. 

Tom  returned  to  his  friend.  He  knew  he  must  con 
centrate  his  efforts  to  keep  life  in  the  battered  body  of 
the  soldier.  He  must  nurse  and  feed  him  judiciously 
until  the  fever  wore  itself  out. 

While  he  was  feeding  Win  broth,  he  fell  asleep  with  the 
spoon  in  his  hand.  He  jerkily  flung  back  his  head  and 
opened  his  eyes.  Cuffy  still  lay  close  to  the  prisoner, 
evidently  prepared  for  an  all-night  vigil  with  short  light 
naps  from  which  the  least  movement  would  instantly 
arouse  him. 


282  MAN-SIZE 

"I'm  all  in.  Got  to  get  some  sleep,"  Morse  said  to 
himself,  half  aloud. 

He  wrapped  in  his  blankets.  When  his  eyes  opened, 
the  sun  was  beating  down  from  high  in  the  heavens. 
He  had  slept  from  one  day  into  the  next.  Even  in  his 
sleep  he  had  been  conscious  of  some  sound  drumming  at 
his  ears.  It  was  the  voice  of  West. 

"You  gonna  sleep  all  day?  Don't  we  get  any  grub? 
Have  I  gotta  starve  while  you  pound  yore  ear?" 

Hurriedly  Tom  flung  aside  his  wraps.  He  leaped  to 
his  feet,  a  new  man,  his  confidence  and  vitality  all 
restored. 

The  fire  had  died  to  ashes.  He  could  hear  the  yelping 
of  the  dogs  in  the  distance.  They  were  on  a  private  rab 
bit  hunt  of  their  own,  all  of  them  but  Cuffy.  The  St 
Bernard  still  lay  in  the  snow  watching  West. 

Beresford's  delirium  was  gone  and  his  fever  was  less. 
He  was  very  weak,  but  Tom  thought  he  saw  a  ghost  of 
the  old  boyish  grin  flicker  indomitably  into  his  eyes. 
As  Tom  looked  at  the  swathed  and  bandaged  head, 
for  the  first  time  since  the  murderous  attack  he  allowed 
himself  to  hope.  The  never-say-die  spirit  of  the  man 
and  the  splendid  constitution  built  up  by  a  clean  out 
door  life  might  pull  him  through  yet. 

"West  was  afraid  you  never  were  going  to  wake  up, 
Tom.  It  worried  him.  You  know  how  fond  of  you  he  is," 
the  constable  said  weakly. 

Morse  was  penitent.  "Why  did  n't  you  wake  me, 
Win?  You  must  be  dying  of  thirst." 

"I  could  do  with  a  drink,"  he  admitted.  "But  you 
needed  that  sleep.  Every  minute  of  it." 


OVER  A  ROTTING  TRAIL  283 

Tom  built  up  the  fire  and  thawed  snow.  He  gave 
Beresford  a  drink  and  then  fed  more  of  the  broth  to 
him.  He  made  breakfast  for  the  prisoner  and  himself. 

Afterward,  he  took  stock  of  their  larder.  It  was  al 
most  empty.  "Enough  flour  and  pemmican  for  another 
mess  of  rubaboo.  Got  to  restock  right  away  or  our 
stomachs  will  be  flat  as  a  buffalo  bull's  after  a  long 
stampede." 

He  spoke  cheerfully,  yet  he  and  Beresford  both  knew 
a  hunt  for  game  might  be  unsuccessful.  Rabbits  would 
not  do.  He  had  to  provide  enough  to  feed  the  dogs 
as  well  as  themselves.  If  he  did  not  get  a  moose,  a  bear, 
or  caribou,  they  would  face  starvation. 

Tom  redressed  the  wounds  of  the  trooper  and  exam 
ined  the  splints  on  the  arm  to  make  sure  they  had  not 
become  disarranged  during  the  night  in  the  delirium  of 
the  sick  man. 

"Got  to  leave  you,  Win.  Maybe  for  a  day  or  more. 
I  '11  have  plenty  of  wood  piled  handy  for  the  fire  —  and 
broth  all  ready  to  heat.  Think  you  can  make  out?" 

The  prospect  could  not  have  been  an  inviting  one  for 
the  wounded  man,  but  he  nodded  quite  as  a  matter  of 
course. 

"I'll  be  all  right.  Take  your  time.  Don't  spoil  your 
hunt  worrying  about  me." 

Yet  it  was  with  extreme  reluctance  Tom  had  made 
up  his  mind  to  go.  He  would  take  the  dog-train  with 
him  —  and  West,  unarmed,  of  course.  He  had  to  take 
him  on  Beresford's  account,  because  he  dared  not  leave 
him.  But  as  he  looked  at  his  friend,  all  the  supple 
strength  stricken  out  of  him,  weak  and  helpless  as  a 


284  MAN-SIZE 

sick  child,  he  felt  a  queer  tug  at  the  heart.  What  assur 
ance  had  he  that  he  would  find  him  still  alive  on  his 
return? 

Beresford  knew  what  he  was  thinking.  He  smiled, 
the  gentle,  affectionate  smile  of  the  very  ill.  "It's  all 
right,  old  fellow.  Got  to  buck  up  and  carry  on,  you 
know.  Look  out  —  for  West.  Don't  give  him  any  show 
at  you.  Never  trust  him  —  not  for  a  minute.  Remem 
ber  he's  — a  wolf."  His  weak  hand  gripped  Tom's  in 
farewell. 

The  American  turned  away  hurriedly,  not  to  show 
the  tears  that  unexpectedly  brimmed  his  lids.  Though 
he  wore  the  hard  surface  of  the  frontier,  his  was  a  sensi 
tive  soul.  He  was  very  fond  of  this  gay,  gallant  youth 
who  went  out  to  meet  adventure  as  though  it  were  a 
lover  with  whom  he  had  an  appointment.  They  had 
gone  through  hell  together,  and  the  fires  of  the  furnace 
had  proved  the  Canadian  true  gold.  After  all,  Tom  was 
himself  scarcely  more  than  a  boy  in  years.  He  cherished, 
deep  hidden  in  him,  the  dreams  and  illusions  that  long 
contact  with  the  world  is  likely  to  dispel.  At  New  Haven 
and  Cambridge  lads  of  his  age  were  larking  beneath 
the  elms  and  playing  childish  pranks  on  each  other. 

West  drove  the  team.  Tom  either  broke  trail  or  fol 
lowed.  He  came  across  plenty  of  tracks,  but  most  of 
them  were  old  ones.  He  recognized  the  spoor  of  deer, 
bear,  and  innumerable  rabbits.  Toward  noon  fresh 
caribou  tracks  crossed  their  path.  The  slot  pointed 
south.  Over  a  soft  and  rotting  trail  Morse  swung  round 
in  pursuit. 

They  made  heavy  going  of  it.  He  had  to  break  trail 


OVER  A  ROTTING  TRAIL  285 

through  slushy  snow.  His  shoes  broke  through  the 
crust  and  clogged  with  the  sludgy  stuff  so  that  his  feet 
were  greatly  weighted.  Fatigue  pressed  like  a  load  on 
his  shoulders.  The  dogs  and  West  wallowed  behind. 

By  night  probably  the  trail  would  be  much  better, 
but  they  dared  not  wait  till  then.  The  caribou  would 
not  stop  to  suit  the  convenience  of  the  hunters.  This 
might  be  the  last  shot  in  the  locker.  Every  dragging  lift 
of  the  webs  carried  Morse  farther  from  camp,  but  food 
had  to  be  found  and  in  quantity. 

It  was  close  to  dusk  when  Tom  guessed  they  were  get 
ting  near  the  herd.  He  tied  the  train  to  a  tree  and 
pushed  on  with  West.  Just  before  nightfall  he  sighted 
the  herd  grazing  on  muskeg  moss.  There  were  about  a 
dozen  in  all.  The  wind  was  fortunately  right. 

Tom  motioned  to  West  not  to  follow  him.  On  hands 
and  knees  the  hunter  crept  forward,  taking  advantage 
of  such  cover  as  he  could  find.  It  was  a  slow,  cold  busi 
ness,  but  he  was  not  here  for  pleasure.  A  mistake  might 
mean  the  difference  between  life  and  death  for  him  and 
Win  Beresford. 

For  a  stalker  to  determine  the  precise  moment  when 
to  shoot  is  usually  a  nice  decision.  Perhaps  he  can  gain 
another  dozen  yards  on  his  prey.  On  the  other  hand,  by 
moving  closer  he  may  startle  them  and  lose  his  chance. 
With  so  much  at  stake  Tom  felt  for  the  second  time  in 
his  life  the  palsy  that  goes  with  buck  fever. 

A  buck  flung  up  his  head  and  sniffed  toward  the 
hidden  danger.  Tom  knew  the  sign  of  startled  doubt. 
Instantly  his  trembling  ceased.  He  aimed  carefully  and 
fired.  The  deer  dropped  in  its  tracks.  Again  he  fired  — 


286  MAN-SIZE 

twice  —  three  times.  The  last  shot  was  a  wild  one,  sent 
on  a  hundredth  chance.  The  herd  vanished  in  the  gath 
ering  darkness. 

Tom  swung  forward  exultant,  his  webs  swishing 
swiftly  over  the  snow.  He  had  dropped  two.  A  second 
buck  had  fallen,  risen,  run  fifty  yards,  and  come  to  earth 
again.  The  hunter's  rifle  was  ready  in  case  either  of  the 
caribou  sprang  up.  He  found  the  first  one  dead,  the 
other  badly  wounded.  At  once  he  put  the  buck  out  of 
its  pain.  • 

West  came  slouching  out  of  the  woods  at  Tom's 
signal.  Directed  by  the  officer,  he  made  a  fire  and  pre 
pared  for  business.  The  stars  were  out  as  they  dressed 
the  meat  and  cooked  a  large  steak  on  the  coals.  After 
ward  they  hung  the  caribou  from  the  limb  of  a  spruce, 
drawing  them  high  enough  so  that  no  prowling  wolves 
could  reach  the  game. 

With  the  coming  of  night  the  temperature  had  fallen 
and  the  snow  hardened.  The  crust  held  beneath  their 
webs  as  they  returned  to  the  sled.  West  wanted  to 
camp  where  the  deer  had  been  killed.  He  protested, 
with  oaths,  in  his  usual  savage  growl,  that  he  was  dead 
tired  and  could  not  travel  another  step. 

But  he  did.  Beneath  the  stars  the  hunters  mushed 
twenty  miles  back  to  camp.  They  made  much  better 
progress  by  reason  of  the  frozen  trail  and  the  good  meal 
they  had  eaten. 

It  was  daybreak  when  Morse  sighted  the  camp-fire 
smoke.  His  heart  leaped.  Beresford  must  have  been 
able  to  keep  it  alive  with  fuel.  Therefore  he  had  been 
alive  an  hour  or  two  ago  at  most. 


OVER  A  ROTTING  TRAIL  287 

Dogs  and  men  trudged  into  camp  ready  to  drop  with 
fatigue. 

Beresford,  from  where  he  lay,  waved  a  hand  at 
Tom.  "Any  luck?"  he  asked. 

"Two  caribou." 

"Good.   I'll  be  ready  for  a  steak  to-morrow." 

Morse  looked  at  him  anxiously.  The  glaze  had  left 
his  eyes.  He  was  no  longer  burning  up  with  fever. 
Both  voice  and  movements  seemed  stronger  than  they 
had  been  twenty-four  hours  earlier. 

"Bully  for  you,  Win,"  he  answered. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

A  CREE  RUNNER  BRINGS  NEWS 

"DON'T  you  worry  about  that  lad,  Jessie.  He's  got  as 
many  lives  as  a  cat  —  and  then  some.  I ' ve  knew  him 
ever  since  he  was  knee-high  to  a  grasshopper." 

Brad  Stearns  was  talking.  He  sat  in  the  big  family 
room  at  the  McRae  house  and  puffed  clouds  of  tobacco 
smoke  to  the  rafters. 

"Meaning  Mr.  Beresford?"  asked  Jessie  demurely. 
She  was  patching  a  pair  of  leather  trousers  for  Fergus 
and  she  did  not  raise  her  eyes  from  the  work. 

"Meanin'  Tom  Morse,"  the  old-timer  said.  "Not  but 
what  Beresford 's  a  good  lad  too.  Sand  in  his  craw  an'  a 
kick  like  a  mule  in  his  fist.  But  he  was  brought  up 
somewheres  in  the  East,  an'  o'  course  he 's  a  leetle  mite 
less  tough  than  Tom.  No,  sir.  Tom '11  bob  up  one  o' 
these  here  days  good  as  ever.  Don't  you  worry  none 
about  that.  Why,  he  ain't  been  gone  but  —  lemme  see, 
a  week  or  so  better 'n  four  months.  When  a  man's  got 
to  go  to  the  North  Pole  an'  back,  four  months  —  " 

Beneath  her  long  lashes  the  girl  slanted  a  swift  look 
at  Brad.  "That  makes  twice  you've  told  me  in  two 
minutes  not  to  worry  about  Mr.  Morse.  Do  I  look 
peaked?  Am  I  lying  awake  nights  thinking  about  him, 
do  you  think?"  She  held  up  the  renewed  trousers  and 
surveyed  her  handiwork  critically. 

Brad  gazed  at  her  through  narrowed  lids.  "I'll  be 
doggoned  if  I  know  whether  you  are  or  you  ain't.  I'd 


A  CREE  RUNNER  BRINGS  NEWS    289 

bet  a  pair  o'  red-topped  boots  it's  one  of  them  lads. 
'Course  Beresf ord  's  got  a  red  coat  an'  spurs  that  jingle 
an'  a  fine  line  o'  talk.  Tom  he  ain't  got  ary  one  oJ  the 
three.  But  if  it's  a  man  you're  lookin'  for,  a  two-fisted 
man  who  —  " 

A  wave  of  mirth  crossed  Jessie's  face  like  a  ripple  on 
still  water.  Her  voice  mimicked  his.  "Why  do  you 
want  to  saw  off  an  old  maid  on  that  two-fisted  man 
you've  knew  ever  since  he  was  knee-high  to  a  grass 
hopper?  What  did  he  ever  do  to  you  that  was  so  dog- 
goned  mean?" 

"Now  looky  here,  you  can  laugh  at  me  all  you've  a 
mind  to.  All  I'm  sayin'  is  —  " 

"Oh,  I'm  not  laughing  at  you,"  she  interposed  hur 
riedly  with  an  assumption  of  anxiety  her  bubbling  eyes 
belied.  "If  you  could  show  me  how  to  get  your  two-fisted 
man  when  he  comes  back  —  or  even  the  one  with  the 
red  coat  and  the  spurs  and  the  fine  line  of  talk  —  ' 

"I  ain't  sayin'  he  ain't  a  man  from  the  ground  up 
too,"  Brad  broke  in.  "Considerin'  his  opportunities 
he's  a  right  hefty  young  fellow.  But  Tom  Morse  he  —  " 

"That's  it  exactly.  Tom  Morse  he  —  " 

"Keep  right  on  makin'  fun  o'  me.  Tom  Morse  he's  a 
man  outa  ten  thousand,  an'  I  don't  know  as  I  'm  coverin' 
enough  population  at  that." 

"And  you're  willing  to  make  a  squaw-man  of  him. 
Oh,  Mr.  Stearns!" 

He  looked  at  her  severely.  "You  got  no  license  to 
talk  thataway,  Jessie  McRae.  You're  Angus  McRae's 
daughter  an'  you  been  to  Winnipeg  to  school.  Anyways, 
after  what  Lemoine  found  out  —  " 


*90  MAN-SIZE 

"What  did  he  find  out?  Pierre  Roubideaux  could  n't 
tell  him  anything  about  the  locket  and  the  ring. 
Makoye-kin  said  he  got  it  from  his  brother  who  was 
one  of  a  party  that  massacred  an  American  outfit  of 
trappers  headed  for  Peace  River.  He  does  n't  know 
whether  the  picture  of  the  woman  in  the  locket  was  that 
of  one  of  the  women  in  the  camp.  All  we've  learned  is 
that  I  look  like  a  picture  of  a  white  woman  found  in  a 
locket  nearly  twenty  years  ago.  That  does  n't  take  us 
very  far,  does  it?" 

"  Well,  Stokimatis  may  know  something.  When  Onis- 
tah  comes  back  with  her,  we'll  get  the  facts  straight." 

McRae  came  into  the  room.  "News,  lass,"  he  cried, 
and  his  voice  rang.  "A  Cree  runner's  just  down  frae 
Northern  Lights.  He  says  the  lads  were  picked  up  by 
some  trappers  near  Desolation.  One  o'  them's  been 
badly  hurt,  but  he's  on  the  mend.  Which  yin  I  dinna 
ken.  What  wi'  starvation  an'  blizzards  an'  battles 
they've  had  a  tough  time.  But  the  word  is  they're 
doing  fine  noo." 

"West?"  asked  Brad.   "Did  they  get  him?" 

"They  got  him.  Dragged  him  back  to  Desolation 
with  a  rope  round  his  neck.  Hung  on  to  him  while 
they  were  slam-bangin'  through  blizzards  an'  runnin' 
a  race  wi'  death  to  get  back  before  they  starved. 
Found  him  up  i'  the  Barrens  somewhere,  the  story  is. 
He  '11  be  hangit  at  the  proper  time  an'  place.  It 's  in  the 
Word.  'They  that  take  the  sword  shall  perish  with  the 
sword/  Matthew  26: 52." 

Brad  let  out  the  exultant  rebel  yell  he  had  learned 
years  before  in  the  Confederate  army.  "What'd  I  tell 


A  CREE  RUNNER  BRINGS  NEWS    291 

you  about  that  boy?  Ain't  I  knowed  him  since  he  was  a 
liT  bit  of  a  tad?  He's  a  go-getter,  Tom  is.  Y'betcha!" 

Jessie's  heart  was  singing  too,  but  she  could  not  for 
bear  a  friendly  gibe  at  him.  "I  suppose  Win  Beresford 
was  n  't  there  at  all.  He  had  n't  a  thing  to  do  with  it, 
had  he?" 

The  old  cowpuncher  raised  a  protesting  hand.  "I 
ain't  said  a  word  against  him.  Now  have  I,  McRae? 
Nothin'  a-tall.  All  I  done  said  was  that  I  been  tellin' 
everybody  Tom  would  sure  enough  bring  back  Bully 
West  with  him." 

The  girl  laughed.  "You're  daffy  about  that  boy 
you  brought  up  by  hand.  I'll  not  argue  with  you." 

"They're  both  good  lads,"  the  Scotchman  summed 
up,  and  passed  to  his  second  bit  of  news.  "  Onistah  and 
Stokimatis  are  in  frae  the  Blackfoot  country.  They 
stoppit  at  the  store,  but  they'll  be  alang  presently. 
I  had  a  word  wi'  Onistah.  We'll  wait  for  him  here." 

"Did  he  say  what  he'd  found  out?"  Jessie  cried. 

"Only  that  he  had  brought  back  the  truth.  That'll 
be  the  lad  knockin'  at  the  door." 

Jessie  opened,  to  let  in  Onistah  and  his  mother. 
Stokimatis  and  the  girl  gravitated  into  each  other's 
arms,  as  is  the  way  with  women  who  are  fond  of  each 
other.  The  Indian  is  stolid,  but  Jessie  had  the  habit  of 
impetuosity,  of  letting  her  feelings  sweep  her  into  dem 
onstration.  Even  the  native  women  she  loved  were  not 
proof  against  it. 

Mcllae  questioned  Stokimatis. 

Without  waste  of  words  the  mother  of  Onistah  told 
the  story  she  had  traveled  hundreds  of  miles  to  tell. 


292  MAN-SIZE 

Sleeping  Dawn  was  not  the  child  of  her  sister.  When 
the  attack  had  been  made  on  the  white  trappers  bound 
for  Peace  River,  the  mother  of  a  baby  had  slipped  the 
infant  under  an  iron  kettle.  After  the  massacre  her 
sister  had  found  the  wailing  little  atom  of  humanity. 
The  Indian  woman  had  recently  lost  her  own  child. 
She  hid  the  babe  and  afterward  was  permitted  to  adopt 
it.  When  a  few  months  later  she  died  of  smallpox, 
Stokimatis  had  inherited  the  care  of  the  little  one.  She 
had  named  it  Sleeping  Dawn.  Later,  when  the  famine 
year  came,  she  had  sold  the  child  to  Angus  McRae. 

That  was  all  she  knew.  But  it  was  enough  for  Jessie. 
She  did  not  know  who  her  parents  had  been.  She  never 
would  know,  beyond  the  fact  that  they  were  Americans 
and  that  her  mother  had  been  a  beautiful  girl  whose 
eyes  laughed  and  danced.  But  this  knowledge  made  a 
tremendous  difference  to  her.  She  belonged  to  the  ruling 
race  and  not  to  the  metis,  just  as  much  as  Win  Beresford 
and  Tom  Morse  did. 

She  tried  to  hide  her  joy,  was  indeed  ashamed  of  it. 
For  any  expression  of  it  seemed  like  a  reproach  to 
Matapi-Koma  and  Onistah  and  Stokimatis,  to  her 
brother  Fergus  and  in  a  sense  even  to  her  father.  None 
the  less  her  blood  beat  fast.  What  she  had  just  found 
out  meant  that  she  could  aspire  to  the  civilization  of 
the  whites,  that  she  had  before  her  an  outlook,  was  not 
to  be  hampered  by  the  limitations  imposed  upon  her  by 
race. 

The  heart  in  the  girl  sang  a  song  of  sunshine  dancing 
on  grass,  of  meadowlarks  flinging  out  their  care-free 
notes  of  joy.  Through  it  like  a  golden  thread  ran  for  a 


A  CREE  RUNNER  BRINGS  NEWS    293 

motif  little  melodies  that  had  to  do  with  a  man  who  had 
staggered  into  Fort  Desolation  out  of  the  frozen  North, 
sick  and  starved  and  perhaps  wounded,  but  still  in 
domitably  captain  of  his  soul. 


CHAPTER  XL 

"MALBROUCK  S'EN  VA-T-EN  GUERRE" 

INSPECTOR  MACLEAN  was  present  in  person  when  the 
two  man-hunters  of  the  North- West  Mounted  returned 
to  Faraway.  Their  reception  was  in  the  nature  of  a 
pageant.  Gayly  dressed  voyageurs  and  trappers,  sing 
ing  old  river  songs  that  had  been  handed  down  to  them 
from  their  fathers,  unharnessed  the  dogs  and  dragged 
the  cariole  into  town.  In  it  sat  Beresford,  still  unfit 
for  long  and  heavy  mushing.  Beside  it  slouched  West, 
head  down,  hands  tied  behind  his  back,  the  eyes  from 
the  matted  face  sending  sidling  messages  of  hate  at  the 
capering  crowd.  At  his  heels  moved  Morse,  grim  and 
tireless,  an  unromantic  figure  of  dominant  efficiency. 

Long  before  the   worn   travelers   and   their  escort 
reached  the  village,  Jessie  could  hear  the  gay  lilt  of 
the  chantey  that  heralded  their  coming: 
"Malbrouck  s'en  va-t-en  guerre, 
Mironton-ton-ton,  mirontaine." 

The  girl  hummed  it  herself,  heart  athrob  with  excite 
ment.  She  found  herself  joining  in  the  cheer  of  welcome 
that  rose  joyously  when  the  cavalcade  drew  into  sight. 
In  her  cheeks  fluttered  eager  flags  of  greeting.  Tears 
brimmed  the  soft  eyes,  so  that  she  could  hardly  dis 
tinguish  Tom  Morse  and  Win  Beresford,  the  one  lean 
and  gaunt  and  grim,  the  other  pale  and  hollow-eyed 
from  illness,  but  scattering  smiles  of  largesse.  For  her 
heart  was  crying,  in  a  paraphrase  of  the  great  parable, 


MALBROUCK  S'EN  VA-T-EN  GUERRE  295 

"He  was  dead,  and  is  alive  again;  he  was  lost,  and  is 
found." 

Beresford  caught  sight  of  the  Inspector's  face  and 
chuckled  like  a  schoolboy  caught  in  mischief.  This  gay 
procession,  with  its  half-breeds  in  tri-colored  woolen 
coats,  its  gay-plumed  voyageurs  suggesting  gallant 
troubadours  of  old  in  slashed  belts  and  tassels,  was  not 
quite  the  sort  of  return  to  set  Inspector  MacLean  cheer 
ing.  Externally,  at  least,  he  was  a  piece  of  military 
machinery.  A  trooper  did  his  work,  and  that  ended  it. 
In  the  North-West  Mounted  it  was  not  necessary  to 
make  a  gala  day  of  it  because  a  constable  brought  in 
his  man.  If  he  did  n't  bring  him  in  —  well,  that  would 
be  another  and  a  sadder  story  for  the  officer  who  fell 
down  on  the  assignment. 

As  soon  as  Beresford  and  Morse  had  disposed  of  their 
prisoner  and  shaken  off  their  exuberant  friends,  they  re 
ported  to  the  Inspector.  He  sat  at  a  desk  and  listened 
dryly  to  their  story.  Not  till  they  had  finished  did  he 
make  any  comment. 

"You'll  have  a  week's  furlough  to  recuperate,  Con 
stable  Beresford.  After  that  report  to  the  Writing-on- 
Stone  detachment  for  orders.  Here's  a  voucher  for 
your  pay,  Special  Constable  Morse.  I'll  say  to  you 
both  that  it  was  a  difficult  job  well  done."  He  hesitated 
a  moment,  then  proceeded  to  free  his  mind.  "As  for 
this  Roman  triumph  business  —  victory  procession 
with  prisoners  chained  to  your  chariot  wheels  —  quite 
unnecessary,  I  call  it." 

Beresford  explained,  smilingly.  "We  really  could  n't 
help  it,  sir.  They  were  bound  to  make  a  Roman  holiday 


296  MAN-SIZE 

out  of  us  whether  we  wanted  to  or  not.  You  know  how 
excitable  the  French  are.  Had  to  have  their  little  frolic 
out  of  it." 

"Not  the  way  the  Mounted  does  business.  You 
know  that,  Beresford.  We  don't  want  any  fuss  and 
feathers  —  any  f ol-de-rol  —  this  mironton-ton-ton  stuff. 
Damn  it,  sir,  you  liked  it.  I  could  see  you  eat  it  up. 
D'  you  s'pose  I  have  n't  eyes  in  my  head?" 

The  veneer  of  sobriety  Beresford  imposed  on  his 
countenance  refused  to  stay  put. 

MacLean  fumed  on.  "Hmp!  Malbrouck  s'en  va-t-en 
guerre,  eh?  Very  pretty.  Very  romantic,  no  doubt. 
But  damned  sentimental  tommyrot,  just  the  same." 

"Yes,  sir,"  agreed  the  constable,  barking  into  a 
cough  just  in  time  to  cut  off  a  laugh. 

"Get  out!"  ordered  the  Inspector,  and  there  was  the 
glimmer  of  a  friendly  smile  in  his  own  eyes.  "And  I'll 
expect  you  both  to  dine  with  me  to-night.  Six  o'clock 
sharp.  I'll  hear  that  wonderful  story  in  more  detail. 
And  take  care  of  yourself,  Beresford.  You  don't  look 
strong  yet.  I'll  make  that  week  two  or  three  if 
necessary." 

"Thank  you,  sir." 

"Hmp!  Don't  thank  me.  Earned  it,  didn't  you? 
What  are  you  hanging  around  for?  Get  out!" 

Constable  Beresford  had  his  revenge.  As  he  passed 
the  window,  Inspector  MacLean  heard  him  singing. 
The  words  that  drifted  to  the  commissioned  officer 
were  familiar. 

"Malbrouck  s'en  va-t-en  guerre, 
Mironton-ton-ton,  mirontaine." 


MALBROUCK  S'EN  VA-T-EN  GUERRE  297 

MacLean  smiled  at  the  irrepressible  youngster.  Like 
most  people,  he  responded  to  the  charm  of  Winthrop 
Beresford.  He  could  forgive  him  a  touch  of  debonair 
impudence  if  necessary. 

It  happened  that  his  heart  was  just  now  very  warm 
toward  both  these  young  fellows.  They  had  come 
through  hell  and  had  upheld  the  best  traditions  of  the 
Force.  Between  the  lines  of  the  story  they  had  told  he 
gathered  that  they  had  shaved  the  edge  of  disaster  a 
dozen  times.  But  they  had  stuck  to  their  guns  like 
soldiers.  They  had  fought  it  out  week  after  week, 
hanging  to  their  man  with  bulldog  pluck.  And  when  at 
last  they  were  found  almost  starving  in  camp,  they 
were  dividing  their  last  rabbit  with  the  fellow  they  were 
bringing  out  to  be  hanged. 

The  Inspector  walked  to  the  window  and  looked  down 
the  street  after  them.  His  lips  moved,  but  no  sound 
came  from  them.  The  rhythmic  motion  of  them  might 
have  suggested,  if  there  had  been  anybody  present  to 
observe,  that  his  mind  was  running  on  the  old  river  song. 

"Malbrouck  s'en  va-t-en  guerre, 
Mironton-ton-ton,  mirontaine." 


CHAPTER  XLI 

SENSE  AND  NONSENSE 

BERESFORD  speaking,  to  an  audience  of  one,  who  lis 
tened  with  soft  dark  eyes  aglow  and  sparkling: 

"He's  the  best  scout  ever  came  over  the  border, 
Jessie.  Trusty  as  steel,  stands  the  gaff  without  whining, 
backs  his  friends  to  the  limit,  and  plays  the  game  out 
till  the  last  card's  dealt  and  the  last  trick  lost.  Tom 
Morse  is  a  man  in  fifty  thousand." 

"I  know  another,"  she  murmured.  "Every  word 
you've  said  is  true  for  him  too." 

"He's  a  wonder,  that  other,"  admitted  the  soldier 
dryly.  "But  we're  talking  about  Tom  now.  I  tell  you 
that  iron  man  dragged  West  and  me  out  of  the  Barrens 
by  the  scruff  of  our  necks.  Would  n't  give  up.  Would  n't 
quit.  The  yellow  in  West  came  out  half  a  dozen  times. 
When  the  ten-day  blizzard  caught  us,  he  lay  down  and 
yelped  like  a  cur.  I  would  n't  have  given  a  plugged  six 
pence  for  our  chances.  But  Tom  went  out  into  it,  during 
a  little  lull,  and  brought  back  with  him  a  timber  wolf. 
How  he  found  it,  how  he  killed  it,  Heaven  alone  knows. 
He  was  coated  with  ice  from  head  to  foot.  That  wolf 
kept  us  and  the  dogs  alive  for  a  week.  Each  day,  when 
the  howling  of  the  blizzard  died  down  a  bit,  Tom  made 
West  go  down  with  him  to  the  creek  and  get  wood.  It 
must  have  been  a  terrible  hour.  They'd  come  back  so 
done  up,  so  frozen,  they  could  hardly  stagger  in  with 
their  jags  of  pine  for  the  fire.  I  never  heard  the  man 


SENSE  AND  NONSENSE 

complain  —  not  once.  He  stood  up  to  it  the  way  Tom 
Sayers  used  to." 

The  girl  felt  a  warm  current  of  life  prickling  swiftly 
through  her.  "I  love  to  hear  you  talk  so  generously  of 
him." 

"Of  my  rival?"  he  said,  smiling.  "How  else  can  I 
talk?  The  scoundrel  has  been  heaping  on  me  those 
coals  of  fire  we  read  about.  I  have  n't  told  you  half  of 
it  —  how  he  nursed  me  like  a  woman  and  looked  after 
me  so  that  I  would  n't  take  cold,  how  he  used  to  tuck 
me  up  in  the  sled  with  a  hot  stone  at  my  feet  and  make 
short  days'  runs  in  order  not  to  wear  out  my  strength. 
By  Jove,  it  was  a  deucedly  unfair  advantage  he  took 
of  me." 

"Is  he  your  rival?"  she  asked. 

"Is  n't  he?" 

"In  business?" 

"How  demure  Miss  McRae  is,"  he  commented.  "Ob 
serve  those  long  eyelashes  flutter  down  to  the  soft 
cheeks." 

"In  what  book  did  you  read  that?"  she  wanted  to 
know. 

"In  that  book  of  suffering  known  as  experience,"  he 
sighed,  eyes  dancing. 

"If  you're  trying  to  tell  me  that  you're  in  love  with 
some  girl  —  " 

"Have  n't  I  been  trying  to  tell  you  for  a  year?" 

Her  eyes  flashed  a  challenge  at  him.  "Take  care,  sir. 
First  thing  you  know  you  '11  be  on  thin  ice.  You  might 
break  through." 

" And  if  I  did— " 


300  MAN-SIZE 

"Of  course  I'd  snap  you  up  before  you  could  bat  an 
eye.  Is  there  a  girl  living  that  wouldn't?  And  I'm 
almost  an  old  maid.  Don't  forget  that.  I'm  to  gather 
rosebuds  while  I  may,  because  time's  flying  so  fast, 
some  poet  says." 

"Time  stands  still  for  you,  my  dear,"  he  bowed,  with 
a  gay  imitation  of  the  grand  manner. 

"Thank  you."  Her  smile  mocked  him.  She  had 
flirted  a  good  deal  with  this  young  man  and  understood 
him  very  well.  He  had  no  intention  whatever  of  giving 
up  the  gay  hazards  of  life  for  any  adventure  so  endur 
ing  as  matrimony.  Moreover,  he  knew  she  knew  it. 
"But  let's  stick  to  the  subject.  While  you're 
proposing  —  " 

"How  you  help  a  fellow  along!"  he  laughed.  "Am  I 
proposing?" 

"Of  course  you  are.  But  I  haven't  found  out  yet 
whether  it's  for  yourself  or  Mr.  Morse." 

"A  good  suggestion  —  novel,  too.  For  us  both,  let's 
say.  You  take  your  choice."  He  flung  out  a  hand  in  a 
gay  debonair  gesture. 

"You've  told  his  merits,  but  I  don't  think  I  ever 
heard  yours  mentioned,"  she  countered.  "If  you'd 
recite  them,  please." 

"It's  a  subject  I  can  do  only  slight  justice."  He 
bowed  again.  "Sergeant  Beresford,  at  your  service,  of 
the  North- West  Mounted." 

"Sergeant!  Since  when?" 

"Since  yesterday.  Promoted  for  meritorious  conduct 
in  the  line  of  duty.  My  pay  is  increased  to  one  dollar 
and  a  quarter  a  day.  In  case  happily  your  choice  falls 


SENSE  AND  NONSENSE  301 

on  me,  don't  squander  it  on  silks  and  satins,  on  trips 
to  Paris  and  London  —  ' 

"If  I  choose  you,  it  won't  be  for  your  wealth,"  she 
assured  him. 

"Reassured,  fair  lady.  I  proceed  with  the  inventory 
of  Sergeant  Beresford's  equipment  as  a  future  husband. 
Fond,  but,  alas!  fickle.  A  family  black  sheep,  or  if  not 
black,  at  least  striped.  Likely  not  to  plague  you  long, 
if  he's  sent  on  many  more  jobs  like  the  last.  Said  to  be 
good-tempered,  but  not  docile.  Kind,  as  men  go,  but 
a  ne'er-do-well,  a  prodigal,  a  waster.  Something  whis 
pers  in  my  ear  that  he'll  make  a  better  friend  than  a 
husband." 

"A  twin  fairy  is  whispering  the  same  in  my  ear,"  the 
girl  nodded.  "At  least  a  better  friend  to  Jessie  McRae. 
But  I  think  he  has  a  poor  advocate  in  you.  The  descrip 
tion  is  not  a  flattering  one.  I  don't  even  recognize  the 
portrait." 

"But  Tom  Morse—  " 

"Exactly,  Tom  Morse.  Have  n't  you  rather  taken 
the  poor  fellow  for  granted?"  She  felt  an  unexpected 
blush  burn  into  her  cheek.  It  stained  the  soft  flesh  to  her 
throat.  For  she  was  discovering  that  the  nonsense  be 
gun  so  lightly  was  embarrassing.  She  did  not  want  to 
talk  about  the  feelings  of  Tom  Morse  toward  her.  "It's 
all  very  well  to  joke,  but  - 

"Shall  I  ask  him?"  he  teased. 

She  flew  into  a  mild  near-panic.  "If  you  dare,  Win 
Beresford!"  The  flash  in  her  eyes  was  no  longer  mirth. 
"We'll  talk  about  something  else.  I  don't  think  it's 
very  nice  of  us  to  —  to  - 


302  MAN-SIZE 

"Tom  retired  from  conversational  circulation,'*  he 
announced.  "Shall  we  talk  of  cats  or  kings?" 

"Tell  me  your  plans,  now  you've  been  promoted." 

"Plans?  Better  men  make  'em.  I  touch  my  hat,  say, 
'Yes,  sir/  and  help  work  'em  out.  Coming  back  to  Tom 
for  a  minute,  have  you  heard  that  the  Colonel  has  writ 
ten  him  a  letter  of  thanks  for  the  distinguished  service 
rendered  by  him  to  the  Mounted  and  suggesting  that  a 
permanent  place  of  importance  can  be  found  for  him  on 
the  Force  if  he'll  take  it?" 

"No.  Did  he?  Is  n't  that  just  fine?"  The  soft  glow 
had  danced  into  her  eyes  again.  "He  won't  take  it,  will 
he?" 

"What  do  you  think?"  His  eyes  challenged  hers 
coolly.  He  was  willing,  if  he  could,  to  discover  whether 
Jessie  was  in  love  with  his  friend. 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  he  should,"  she  said  quickly.  "He 
has  a  good  business.  It's  getting  better  all  the  time. 
He's  a  coming  man.  And  of  course  he'd  get  hard  jobs 
in  the  Mounted,  the  way  you  do." 

"That's  a  compliment,  if  it's  true,"  he  grinned. 

"I  dare  say,  but  that  does  n't  make  it  any 
safer." 

"They  could  n't  give  him  a  harder  one  than  you  did 
when  you  sent  him  into  the  Barrens  to  bring  back  West." 
His  eyes,  touched  with  humor  and  yet  disconcertingly 
intent  on  information,  were  fixed  steadily  on  hers. 

The  girl's  cheeks  flew  color  signals.  "Why  do  you 
say  that?  I  did  n't  ask  him  to  go.  He  volunteered." 

"Was  n't  it  because  you  wanted  him  to?" 

"I  should  think  you'd  be  the  last  man  to  say  that," 


SENSE  AND  NONSENSE  303 

she  protested  indignantly.  "He  was  your  friend,  and  he 
did  n't  want  you  to  run  so  great  a  risk  alone." 

"Then  you  did  n't  want  him  to  go?" 

"If  I  did,  it  was  for  you.  Maybe  he  blames  me  for  it, 
but  I  don't  see  how  you  can.  You  've  just  finished  tell 
ing  me  he  saved  your  life  a  dozen  times." 

"Did  I  say  I  was  blaming  you?"  His  warm,  affec 
tionate  smile  begged  pardon  if  he  had  given  offense.  "I 
was  just  trying  to  get  it  straight.  You  wanted  him  to  go 
that  time,  but  you  would  n't  want  him  to  go  again.  Is 
that  it?" 

"I  would  n't  want  either  of  you  to  go  again.  What 
are  you  driving  at,  Win  Beresford?" 

"Oh,  nothing!"  He  laughed.  "But  if  you  think 
Tom 's  too  good  to  waste  on  the  Mounted,  you  'd  better 
tell  him  so  while  there 's  still  time.  He  '11  make  up  his 
mind  within  a  day  or  two." 

"I  don't  see  him.  He  never  comes  here." 

"I  wonder  why." 

Jessie  sometimes  wondered  why  herself. 


CHAPTER  XLII 
THE  IMPERATIVE  URGE 

THE  reason  why  Tom  did  not  go  to  see  Jessie  was  that 
he  longed  to  do  so  in  every  fiber  of  his  being.  His  mind 
was  never  freed  for  a  moment  from  the  routine  of  the 
day's  work  that  it  did  not  automatically  turn  toward 
her.  If  he  saw  a  woman  coming  down  the  street  with 
the  free  light  step  only  one  person  in  Faraway  possessed, 
his  heart  would  begin  to  beat  faster.  In  short,  he  suf 
fered  that  torment  known  as  being  in  love. 

He  dared  not  go  to  see  her  for  fear  she  might  discover 
it.  She  was  the  sweetheart  of  his  friend.  It  was  as 
natural  as  the  light  of  day  that  she  turn  to  Win  Beres- 
ford  with  the  gift  of  her  love.  Nobody  like  him  had 
ever  come  into  her  life.  His  gay  courage,  his  debonair 
grace,  the  good  manners  of  that  outer  world  such  a  girl 
must  crave,  the  affectionate  touch  of  friendliness  in  his 
smile:  how  could  any  woman  on  this  forsaken  edge  of 
the  Arctic  resist  them? 

She  could  not,  of  course,  let  alone  one  so  full  of  the 
passionate  longing  for  life  as  Jessie  McRae. 

If  Tom  could  have  looked  on  her  unmoved,  if  he 
could  have  subdued  or  concealed  the  ardent  fire  inside 
him,  he  would  have  gone  to  call  occasionally  as  though 
casually.  But  he  could  not  trust  himself.  He  was  like 
a  volcano  ready  for  eruption.  Already  he  was  arranging 
with  his  uncle  to  put  a  subordinate  here  and  let  him 


THE  IMPERATIVE  URGE  305 

return  to  Benton.  Until  that  could  be  accomplished,  he 
tried  to  see  her  as  little  as  possible. 

But  Jessie  was  a  child  of  the  imperative  urge.  She 
told  herself  fifty  times  that  it  was  none  of  her  business 
if  he  did  accept  the  offer  of  a  place  in  the  North- West 
Mounted.  He  could  do  as  he  pleased.  Why  should  she 
interfere?  And  yet  —  and  yet  — 

She  found  a  shadow  of  excuse  for  herself  in  the  fact 
that  it  had  been  through  her  that  he  had  offered  himself 
as  a  special  constable.  He  might  think  she  wanted  him 
to  enlist  permanently.  So  many  girls  were  foolish  about 
the  red  coats  of  soldiers.  She  had  noticed  that  among  her 
school-girl  friends  at  Winnipeg.  If  she  had  any  influence 
with  him  at  all,  she  did  not  want  it  thrown  on  that  side 
of  the  scale. 

But  of  course  he  probably  did  not  care  what  she 
thought.  Very  likely  it  was  her  vanity  that  whispered 
to  her  he  had  gone  North  with  Win  Beresford  partly  to 
please  her.  Still,  since  she  was  his  friend,  ought  she 
not  to  just  drop  an  offhand  hint  that  he  was  a  more 
useful  citizen  where  he  was  than  in  the  Mounted?  He 
could  n't  very  well  resent  that,  could  he?  Or  think  her 
officious?  Or  forward? 

She  contrived  little  plans  to  meet  him  when  he  would 
be  alone  and  she  could  talk  with  him,  but  she  rejected 
these  because  she  was  afraid  he  would  see  through  them. 
It  had  become  of  first  importance  to  her  that  Tom  Morse 
should  not  think  she  had  any  but  a  superficial  interest 
in  him. 

When  at  last  she  did  meet  him,  it  was  by  pure  chance. 
Dusk  was  falling.  She  was  passing  the  yard  where  his 


306  MAN-SIZE 

storehouse  was.  He  wheeled  out  and  came  on  her 
plumply  face  to  face.  Both  were  taken  by  surprise 
completely.  Out  of  it  neither  could  emerge  instantly 
with  casual  words  of  greeting. 

Jessie  felt  her  pulses  throb.  A  queer  consternation 
paralyzed  the  faculties  that  ought  to  have  come  alertly 
to  her  rescue.  She  stood,  awkwardly  silent,  in  a  shy 
panic  to  her  pulsing  finger-tips.  Later  she  would  flog 
herself  scornfully  for  her  folly,  but  this  did  not  help  in 
the  least  now. 

"I  —  I  was  just  going  to  Mr.  Whaley's  with  a  little 
dress  Mother  made  for  the  baby,"  she  said  at  last. 

"It's  a  nice  baby,"  was  the  best  he  could  do. 

"Yes.  It's  funny.  You  know  Mr.  Whaley  didn't 
care  anything  about  it  before  —  while  it  was  very  little. 
But  now  he  thinks  it 's  wonderful.  I  'm  so  glad  he  does." 

She  was  beginning  to  get  hold  of  herself,  to  emerge 
from  the  emotional  crisis  into  which  this  meeting  had 
plunged  her.  It  had  come  to  her  consciousness  that  he 
was  as  perturbed  as  she,  and  a  discovery  of  this  nature 
always  brings  a  woman  composure. 

"He  treats  his  wife  a  lot  better  too." 

"There  was  room  for  it,"  he  said  dryly. 

"She's  a  nice  little  thing." 

"Yes." 

Conversation,  which  had  been  momentarily  brisk, 
threatened  to  die  out  for  lack  of  fuel.  Anything  was 
better  than  significant  silences  in  which  she  could  al 
most  hear  the  hammering  of  her  heart. 

"Win  Beresford  told  me  about  the  offer  you  had  to  go 
into  the  Mounted,"  she  said,  plunging. 


THE  IMPERATIVE  URGE  307 

"Yes?" 

"Will  you  accept?" 

He  looked  at  her,  surprised.  "Did  n't  Win  tell  you? 
I  said  right  away  I  could  n't  accept.  He  knew 
that." 

"Oh!  I  don't  believe  he  did  tell  me.  Perhaps  you 
had  n't  decided  then."  Privately  she  was  determining 
to  settle  some  day  with  Winthrop  Beresford  for  leading 
her  into  this.  He  had  purposely  kept  silent,  she  knew 
now,  in  the  hope  that  she  would  talk  to  Tom  Morse 
about  it.  "But  I'm  glad  you've  decided  against  going 
in." 

"Why?" 

"It's  dangerous,  and  I  don't  think  it  has  much 
future." 

"Win  likes  it." 

"Yes,  Win  does.  He'll  get  a  commission  one  of  these 
days." 

"He  deserves  one.  I  —  I  hope  you'll  both  be  very 
happy." 

He  was  walking  beside  her.  Quickly  her  glance 
flashed  up  at  him.  Was  that  the  reason  he  had  held  him 
self  so  aloof  from  her? 

"I  think  we  shall,  very  likely,  if  you  mean  Win  and  I. 
He's  always  happy,  isn't  he?  And  I  try  to  be.  I'm 
sorry  he's  leaving  this  part  of  the  country.  Writing-on- 
Stone  is  a  long  way  from  here.  He  may  never  get 
back.  I'll  miss  him  a  good  deal.  Of  course  you  will 
too." 

This  was  plain  enough,  but  Tom  could  not  accept  it 
at  face  value.  Perhaps  she  meant  that  she  would  miss 


308  MAN-SIZE 

him  until  Win  got  ready  to  send  for  her.  An  idea  lodged 
firmly  in  the  mind  cannot  be  ejected  at  an  instant's 
notice. 

"Yes,  I'll  miss  him.  He's  a  splendid  fellow.  I've 
never  met  one  like  him,  so  staunch  and  cheerful  and 
game.  Sometime  I'd  like  to  tell  you  about  that  trip 
we  took.  You'd  be  proud  of  him." 

"I'm  sure  all  his  friends  are,"  she  said,  smiling  a 
queer  little  smile  that  was  lost  in  the  darkness. 

"He  was  a  very  sick  man,  in  a  great  deal  of  pain,  and 
we  had  a  rather  dreadful  time  of  it.  Of  course  it  hit  him 
far  harder  than  it  did  either  West  or  me.  But  never  a 
whimper  out  of  him  from  first  to  last.  Always  cheerful, 
always  hopeful,  with  a  little  joke  or  a  snatch  of  a  song, 
even  when  it  looked  as  though  we  could  n't  go  on  an 
other  day.  He's  one  out  of  ten  thousand." 

"I  heard  him  say  that  about  another  man  —  only  I 
think  he  said  one  in  fifty  thousand,"  she  made  com 
ment,  almost  in  a  murmur. 

"Any  girl  would  be  lucky  to  have  such  a  man  for 
a  husband,"  he  added  fatuously. 

"Yes.  I  hope  he'll  find  some  nice  one  who  will  appre 
ciate  him." 

This  left  no  room  for  misunderstanding.  Tom's 
brain  whirled.  "You  —  you  and  he  haven't  had  any 
—  quarrel?" 

"No.  What  made  you  think  so? " 

"I  don't  know.  I  suppose  I'm  an  idiot.  But  I 
thought  —  " 

He  stopped.   She  took  up  his  unfinished  sentence. 

"You  thought  wrong." 


THE  IMPERATIVE  URGE  309 

They  had  come  to  Whaley's  house.  She  made  as 
though  to  turn  in. 

He  caught  at  her  coat.  "Wait,"  he  said  huskily. 
"Let's  —  let's  walk  to  the  end  of  the  street." 

Her  heart  flung  out  panic  signals  again.  The  pulse 
in  her  soft  throat  drummed.  "I  —  don't  think  I'd 
better,"  she  protested  in  a  small  voice. 

"Yes,"  he  said.    "I've  something  to  say  to  you." 

She  meant  to  go  into  the  house,  but  her  feet  did  not 
obey.  Before  she  knew  it  they  were  keeping  step  with 
those  of  Morse. 

If  he  had  anything  to  say,  he  appeared  to  have  trou 
ble  in  finding  words  to  express  himself.  They  walked  in 
silence.  Once  a  wolf  in  the  forest  howled  mournfully. 
Their  moccasins  crunched  on  the  snow  crystals.  No 
other  sound  broke  the  stillness. 

They  reached  the  end  of  the  street. 

Caught  in  the  tide  of  an  emotional  stress,  the  girl 
made  one  attempt  to  escape.  "I  must  hurry  back,"  she 
murmured. 

He  ignored  her  words,  if  he  heard  them.  A  world  of 
cold  wonderful  moonlight  surrounded  them.  Above 
them  twinkled  a  million  other  worlds.  And  in  all  this 
universe  of  space  were  just  two  people,  the  man  and 
the  woman. 

"I'm  a  presumptuous  fool,"  he  broke  out.  "After 
what's  between  us  —  after  that  first  night  when  I 
made  you  hate  me  —  but  I  can't  help  it  —  I  'd  better 
tell  you  and  be  done  with  it.  I  love  you  —  always  have 
—  always  shall.  Now  tell  me  that  you  hate  me,  and 
I '11  never  trouble  you  again.  I'm  going  away  —  soon." 


310  MAN-SIZE 

"Can  I  tell  you  that  —  when  I  don't?"  she  asked,  so 
low  he  just  caught  the  words. 

"You  are  good.  You've  tried  to  be  friendly  to  me, 
but  deep  down  in  you  —  " 

Her  eyes  met  his  —  wonderful  eyes,  soft  and  radiant 
and  dewy,  with  the  light  in  them  it  is  given  only  one 
man  to  see.  "A  girl  forgives  a  man  everything  he  has 
done  —  when  she  loves  him.  There  is  n't  room  for 
anything  else.  It  just  fills  her." 

His  heart  sang.  It  was  impossible,  of  course.  Yet 
it  was  true.  She  loved  him.  Had  she  not  just  said  so? 
He  looked  at  her,  dazed,  his  soul  full  of  her  slender 
sweetness,  of  the  sense  of  the  amazing  gift  he  dared  not 
reach  out  his  hands  to  take. 

Then  —  how  neither  of  them  knew  —  she  was  in  his 
arms,  warm,  trembling,  close  to  tears,  her  whole  being 
exquisitely  happy. 

When  he  looked  up  into  the  sky  again,  the  moonlight 
was  no  longer  chill.  The  stars  twinkled  warm  benedic 
tions.  A  miracle  had  transformed  the  night. 


THE  END 


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NOV 


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JUN    4  1947        Stf  lV  l955 


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